


In a New Light, Part I: Armitage

by valda



Series: In a New Light [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Self-Harm, M/M, Not Poe Dameron Comic Compliant, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-TLJ, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Imbalance, Prisoner of War, Redemption, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2019-08-02 00:17:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16294700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valda/pseuds/valda
Summary: Armitage Hux is found by the Resistance, alone and badly injured. When he wakes, he has no memory of who he is. As he tries to learn more about himself and his situation, he grows closer to Poe Dameron, who is struggling with his own sense of self. The galaxy hasn't stopped turning, though, and it all soon catches up to Armitage.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twistedsardonic (sfvamp)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfvamp/gifts).



> This work was prompted by twistedsardonic as part of Fandom Trumps Hate.
> 
> Note: There is no explicit noncon in this fic, but past noncon is implied and referred to.

The Supreme Leader was unhappy.

It had been mere days since General Hux’s disappearance, but Kylo Ren had never before been so erratic. Even the officers who’d witnessed Crait firsthand said that these days he was far, far worse. The galaxy should have easily been his, but instead the First Order was floundering. Tales of the  _Supremacy_ ’s destruction and Kylo Ren’s very personal defeat to Luke Skywalker were making their treasonous way from port to port by whispered word of mouth, yet the Order was doing nothing—wasting time on small local disputes, losing meaningless battles when the war should already be won.

The First Order’s ranks had their own whispers, muttered despairingly by stormtroopers and grudgingly by senior officers who had once thought they knew better:

General Hux would know what to do.

~

They’d found him in an escape pod, crumpled on the floor, unconscious and barely breathing. His neck was almost black with bruising and his skin was ghastly pale. One of his arms and several of his ribs were broken, and his uniform was discolored and sticky with blood. Despite it all, he was unmistakable.

“That’s General Hux,” Finn confirmed, scowling, as the man’s broken body was loaded onto a stretcher.

“How the mighty have fallen.” Poe Dameron rubbed at his jaw. “Given…all this, I’m not sure he’s even valuable as a hostage.”

“Could be a trick,” Finn said.

“Right. Scan him again, search him, keep him away from vital equipment and personnel. I gotta talk to Leia.”

~

Everything hurt. That was the first thing he perceived as his mind dragged itself with great effort to consciousness. Everything hurt, and he was alone.

This didn’t seem surprising, for some reason. Shouldn’t it be surprising? Shouldn’t someone be here? A droid, at least. Or…

He blinked up at the ceiling, a confluence of thick pipes and battered durasteel, and frowned. He couldn’t think of who should be here.

He wasn’t altogether certain where  _here_ was, for that matter. The ceiling was awfully…disordered. It shouldn’t look like that, should it? Surely it was a health and safety hazard to have exposed inner workings. Not to mention it was vulnerable to attack. Looking at it more closely, he could identify information and power and water and air circulation lines. Anyone could simply…

Groaning, he closed his eyes. There was too much wrong here; it was a mental drain, and he seemed to be physically depleted.

He was also in a lot of pain, and he didn’t find that surprising either, as if he had expected to be. But he didn’t know  _why_ he was in pain…he didn’t know what had happened…

He didn’t know what had happened.

Groaning, he opened his eyes again and tried to push himself up to a sitting position. It became immediately apparent that his right arm was in a sling, and his left wrist and both ankles were strapped to the narrow cot he was lying on. When he engaged his stomach muscles there was a sharp pain in his left side that made him gasp. He gave up on changing position and instead turned his head back and forth. There was a permacrete wall to his left. The door out of the small room was to his right, beyond a table and chair and a variety of medical equipment.

“Hello?” he called to the door. Almost immediately, it slid open, and an older woman walked in. She had brown hair in elaborate braids and brown eyes that looked oddly familiar, but he didn’t know her.

“Hello,” the woman said. She seemed amused. “We didn’t expect you to break so soon.”

“Break?” he asked, his voice coming out raspy through a throat that felt as though it had been recently crushed.

The woman crossed her arms, letting out a sigh that sounded impatient. “We didn’t expect you to want to speak to us. At least not right away.”

“Oh,” he said. “Why?”

“Why?” The woman laughed. The chair was right next to her, but she didn’t sit down; she just stood there, arms crossed, and looked at him with what he could only classify as distaste. “What’s your game?”

He frowned at her. “I just want to know what happened to me. Where am I?”

“Where do you think you are?” the woman said. “You’re with the Rebellion, and that’s as specific an answer as you’re going to get.”

“The Rebellion,” he repeated. “The one that defeated the Empire?”

The woman gave him a small smile. “The one that will defeat the First Order.”

So they’d changed their name. Actually, that did sound familiar. He thought he remembered someone saying something about that, not long ago. Very recently. Around the same time as—

As  _something_. His head was starting to throb. It didn’t matter. That wasn’t the real issue.

“How was I injured?” he asked. “I’m having trouble remembering.”

The woman gave him a flat look. “It happened before we found you.”

“Found me,” he repeated. “So I haven’t…always been here.” He pressed his lips together, even though it hurt. This place felt wrong because it wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

The woman looked at him for a long moment, then turned toward the door. It slid open for her, but before she could step out, he called, “Wait. Who are you?”

She turned, eyes narrowed, and said as though she were quoting someone, “I’m the ‘precious prin _cess_.’”

~

The next to come in was a medical droid. It was an older model, and he wasn’t sure he should trust it. It took his vital signs without removing his restraints.

“Why am I tied down?” he asked.

“I am not authorized to answer questions, sir,” the droid said.

“Not even about my condition?”

The droid looked uncomfortable. “Someone will be in to speak with you later, sir,” it said. “However, I have been authorized to ask you questions that should benefit your overall health.”

He rolled his eyes back, closing them and letting out a sigh. “Fine.”

“For the record, please state your name and occupation.”

Letting out a huff, he began, “My name is—” Then he opened his eyes, because he didn’t know what to say next. “My name is,” he tried again, but whatever should follow those words simply wasn’t there. “My occupation is,” he said stubbornly, but nothing came out after that either. “I’m…”

He turned his head back to the droid, scowling. “Well, then. I suppose that answers the question of why I have no bloody idea where I am.”

“Do you know the year, sir? Standard galactic time?” He rattled off a number, and the droid nodded. “Do you know who Leia Organa is?”

“That’s the leader of the Resistance, isn’t it? Wait, she’s the one who was just in here, wasn’t she?”

The droid ignored the questions. “Do you know who Armitage Hux is?”

“No.”

“Kylo Ren?”

It was suddenly as though ice water had flooded his veins. He was shaking, but he wasn’t sure why. “He’s with the First Order,” he said, willing his limbs to stop their blasted trembling. “Their enforcer.”

“Supreme Leader Snoke?” the droid asked.

“Dead,” he answered immediately, and then he blinked. “I don’t think that was in the news.”

“Rey?”

“A grand admiral for the First Order. One of their finest. How did I know about Snoke?”

The droid’s photoreceptor lenses shuffled back and forth in something resembling a blink. “A grand admiral?”

“Yes,” he said impatiently. “Grand Admiral Rae Sloane. How did I know about Snoke? Was I right?”

“FN-2187,” the droid said, maddeningly.

“A traitor to the First Order.” He yanked his left arm against the restraint. “Why are you asking me about First Order personnel?”

“Poe Dameron.”

He flung his head back against the flat pillow in irritation. “A pilot for the Resistance—Rebellion, I suppose it’s called now. A real wanker. How is this helping you evaluate my condition?”

“You seem to have suffered some loss of memory,” the droid said, surprising him by actually answering a question for once. Then again, that fact was rather obvious.

“So you’re, what, asking me galactic trivia questions? Will you ask me about famous jizz wailers next?”

A red light on the wall console near the table began flashing. “That will be all for now, sir,” the droid said.

“No. Unacceptable. I refuse to allow you to—” But the droid had rolled its way to the door. He hurled expletives at it as the hatch slid away, but the droid didn’t look back.

~

No one else came to speak to him for what seemed like several hours. He slid in and out of consciousness, wincing each time he woke and became aware once again of his injuries. Finally a blue and white astromech droid that looked like something out of the Clone Wars brought him a tray of food. When he tried asking it questions it spat a warning at him in binary, extending a sparking electro-shock arm. He forced himself to stop talking and let the droid feed him; he needed to keep his strength up.

The way he was being treated did not bode well. It made sense for the Resistance-cum-Rebellion to be cautious of anyone they brought back to their base, but their refusal to remove his restraints made it more and more likely that he was a person of interest. A prisoner. Just his luck that he had no idea why the Rebellion would want to capture him.

Sometime after the meal he started to feel uncomfortable. “Hello?” he yelled at the door. “Were you planning on allowing me to relieve myself in a civilized manner, or am I to do it here?”

The door slid open and in walked the pilot the med droid had asked him about earlier. Poe Dameron was a very good-looking man, compact but muscular with a frankly beautiful face. At the pilot’s approach he attempted to sit up automatically, then cursed when the restraints held him in place.

“Easy there, Red,” Dameron said, looking far more amused than could be considered polite. “I’ll take you to the ’fresher if you promise to behave.”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t?”

Dameron’s grin shifted into a smirk. He looked like he wanted to make a sarcastic comment, but all the pilot ended up saying was, “If you’re playing a game with us, you’re doing a hell of a job.”

He rolled his eyes and let out a huff. “I grow weary of this,” he said. “Tell me why I’m here. Tell me what’s going on.” He paused, then added, “Tell me who I am.”

Dameron looked at him for a long moment. “Not my call,” he said finally. “You want to take a piss or what?”

~

Not long after his visit to the refresher unit, the lights in his small room were lowered, and he took that to mean it was time to sleep. He could tell he was physically exhausted, but he was filled with a nervous energy, the need to get up and pace. He stared up at the dark ceiling and flexed his muscles one by one.

Were they ever going to tell him who he was? Were they going to keep him locked up forever?

He didn’t have enough information to begin crafting an escape plan. All he knew was this room, not what was beyond it. He didn’t know if he was high in a tower or deep underground. He didn’t know how far it was to the outside, or what lay in his path.

He was, at least, fairly certain he was not on a starship. It just didn’t feel like one.

Maybe he was accustomed to being on starships, and that was another reason this place felt wrong.

After his thoughts had gone around in circles nearly 20 times, the med droid returned. “I have been authorized to offer you a sedative,” it said.

“No,” he said automatically. Then, “Wait.” He wasn’t going anywhere for awhile, and it would help to be rested the next time he spoke with someone. Perhaps his thoughts would be clearer, and a course of action would come to him. “Yes.”

The drug took effect almost immediately. He blinked suddenly heavy eyelids and felt his body starting to relax. His last thought before unconsciousness took him was to wonder whether he always needed help getting to sleep, or if it was just these special circumstances.

~

He awoke some unknowable time later feeling better than he had in recent memory. His entire body ached, but the painful throbbing he hadn’t even realized he’d been enduring was gone. This little room, of course, had no windows, so he had no idea what time of day it was, assuming he was on a planet. But based on his improved physical condition, he supposed he must have slept “overnight.”

The lights in his room came up slowly, and then the hatch slid open and a young woman walked in. A girl, really, perhaps not even out of her teens yet. He felt himself relaxing; she reminded him of something, though of course he couldn’t pinpoint what. Perhaps he often worked or interacted with subadults.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” the young woman said. She seemed rather guileless, but he couldn’t take her comment as confirmation of the time. She might be responding in kind out of habit or politeness. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired of being tied down,” he said. “But better. I slept well.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“No,” he confessed. “But you seem trustworthy.”

Something in her face twitched at that; it looked like she couldn’t decide between a smile and a frown. “I’m Rey,” she said.

“Just Rey?”

“Just Rey.” This time she did smile, though seemingly to herself.

“I’d introduce myself,” he said, “but I don’t actually know who I am.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Rey said. “Leia asked me to determine if you are being genuine about your memory loss.” She paused. “Are you familiar with the Force?”

Suddenly he was trembling. He fought to ignore the accelerated beating of his heart, the feeling that he wasn’t getting enough air. “I know of it,” he said, fists clenching. The sharp pressure of his nails in his palms was oddly soothing; he squeezed harder, keeping his eyes open and on the girl, Rey, through sheer force of will.

“Is this a bad subject?” Rey asked.

He scowled. “I don’t know.”

“All right,” Rey said. “We want to believe that you are telling us the truth, but the only way to truly know would be…to look at your mind.”

The trembling subsided a bit. “With the Force,” he said.

Rey nodded. “It’s an invasion of privacy. It’s not something I want to do to anyone.”

He had to laugh. He must be someone truly dangerous to the Rebellion if they were willing to go against their own principles to determine whether he was lying. “Armitage Hux,” he said thoughtfully.

Rey’s mouth compressed into a line. “You do remember.”

“No,” he said. “That’s the only name the med droid said yesterday that I didn’t recognize.” He turned his head back to front and gazed up at the ceiling. “So that’s my name, then. Armitage.” Looking sidelong at Rey, he asked, “And why is Armitage Hux someone the Rebellion wants to keep prisoner? I come from the First Order, I suppose?”

Rey shook her head, but it wasn’t a denial. “I can’t tell you anything,” she said. “If you’ll permit the Force probe, I’ll take what I learn back to Leia, and she’ll decide…what needs to be decided.”

They were enemies. If he allowed this girl into his mind, she might learn details he wouldn’t want the Rebellion to know.

Of course, if he  _didn’t_ allow the girl into his mind, assuming she didn’t force her way in regardless, they’d treat him the way they would treat an enemy: lifelong imprisonment at best, execution at worst.

“Restrict yourself only to details of my identity,” he said, appealing to her obvious sense of honor. There was no way he could force Rey not to look at everything, but perhaps her own guilt would keep her from doing so.

Rey paused, then nodded. “Agreed.”

~

If he was completely honest with himself, he was hoping the Force probe would mend his brain, let him remember again. Knowing who he was and what his priorities were—having all the information that would normally be at his disposal—would make him far more confident in his decisions.

Unfortunately, it did no such thing. He saw Rey as though she were walking through a snowy landscape, everything white, the sky blending into the ground such that there was no visible horizon. There were odd, dark details here and there, but they remained blurry, and no matter how long Rey spent walking toward them, they never got closer.

By the time Rey was finished exploring, he had the worst headache of his life.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she looked truly apologetic. “I didn’t mean to harm you.”

“I’ve endured worse,” he replied automatically, then added, “I think.”

She laughed at that. “I’ll have 5-1D bring you a painkiller. Here,” she said. She waved her hand, and his restraints snapped open. “Make yourself more comfortable. I need to talk to Leia, but someone will be with you soon.”

Alone, he sat up for the first time without a guard, grunting at the sharp pain in his ribs and right arm. “Armitage,” he said aloud. “Armitage, Armitage, Armitage.” He drew a knee to his chest and massaged his ankle with his left hand. “Armitage.”

~

The room Armitage had awakened in became his assigned quarters, and he was given three jumpsuits, the type worn by technicians. The Rebel Alliance starbird was embroidered proudly on the left breast of all three. He decided it would be rude to cut them off; no matter how things went, he needed to maintain good relations for now.

Service droids brought a few standard personal items to his room, and he was finally able to look at himself in a mirror. It was like staring into the eyes of a stranger; he didn’t much care for it.

At least he now knew why Dameron had called him “Red.”

He was also given a few days of treatment in a bacta suit, supervised not by the med droid but by a doctor named Harter Kalonia. Despite being past its use-by date and somewhat worse for wear, the suit sped the process of his recovery considerably. Soon the bruising that had painted his throat and left side was completely gone, an indicator that his internal injuries were well on their way to being healed.

He was allowed to leave his quarters only with an escort, usually Poe Dameron and sometimes Rey. Holonet access was restricted; he couldn’t even look himself up. “I’m sure you understand that it is not in our interest for you to want to return to where you came from,” Leia Organa told him. “Besides, we’d like you to give us a chance.” He was positive now that he must be important to the First Order, but the rebels refused to confirm it.

The base turned out to be underground on a planet Armitage didn’t recognize. The air on the surface was only breathable for a few minutes. It was a good place to hide, and also a good place to hold a prisoner. To determine whether there were other settlements on the planet or to steal a transport, he would have to somehow gain access to the control room or the hangar bay, both of which were off-limits to him. There didn’t seem to be any other options.

He took all his meals in his room at first, but once he was reasonably healed it was time to branch out. Communal meals offered an excellent opportunity to gather intelligence. At his request, Dameron escorted him to an evening meal in the mess hall.

As they settled in at a table in the corner, clattering down trays laden with reconstituted rations, he noticed a group across the room engaged in what appeared to be a heated conversation. Every now and then one of them glanced in his direction. After a moment, he realized Rey was part of the group, and next to her was FN-2187, the First Order traitor.

“Might we go talk to them?” Armitage asked Dameron.

The pilot looked up, glanced at the other table, and grimaced. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

Armitage stood. “I prefer to face my problems head on.”

“Heh.” Dameron stood too. “Can’t fault you there.”

The table quieted as Armitage approached, Dameron at his flank. “Hello,” Armitage said.

“What are  _you_ doing here,” spat the human woman on FN-2187’s other side. Armitage didn’t recognize her. She wore a jumpsuit similar to the ones he’d been given, which meant she was likely a maintenance worker of some kind.

“Saying hello,” Armitage told her.

“Hello,” Rey put in with an awkward smile. “How’s your recovery going, Armitage?”

“Well, thank you. My arm is almost healed.” He paused, thinking of what might be polite to ask her in return. “How is…the Force?”

She laughed, and he had to smile. There was something strange, but charming, about her joy. “The Force is good,” she said. “I’m learning a lot. Have you met everyone?” She gestured around the table.

“I haven’t,” Armitage said, and so introductions were made. FN-2187 was identified as Finn; the former stormtrooper said hello but didn’t look particularly happy about it. The woman next to him was Rose Tico, a maintenance tech, and the others at the table were Nien Nunb, a Sullustian pilot, C’ai Threnalli, an Abednedo pilot, and Chewbacca, a Wookiee pilot. “Pleasure to meet you all,” Armitage told them. Chewbacca let out a long grumble in response.

“He says…it doesn’t matter what he said,” Rey said, shooting Chewbacca a small frown.

Armitage smiled. “Have a good evening,” he said, and then he turned back to his own table. He’d achieved his objective, for now.

Dameron lingered behind him for a moment, murmuring an apology to the others. When he caught back up, Armitage gave him a wry smile. “I’d wondered why you were always the one stuck with me. Now I have a better idea. Though now I wonder: why don’t  _you_ hate me?”

Dameron threw a leg over his stool and plopped down onto it. “Never said I didn’t,” he said, looking up at Armitage with a grin.

Heat rose unbidden to Armitage’s face. This was perhaps the most pleasant declaration of avarice he’d ever encountered. That he could remember, at least. Of course, that wasn’t the real issue. Armitage sat down carefully and picked up his fork, unsure of how to pursue his question.

Dameron took pity on him. “It’s easier for me to not take you seriously,” he explained. “I pulled a big one over on you once.”

“So we knew each other?” Armitage asked. “I have…opinions about you, but I’m not sure where they come from.”

“I believe your exact words were ‘a real wanker,’” Dameron said, grinning again. Armitage’s face grew even hotter. “We didn’t know each other personally. We…interacted. That’s probably all I should say.”

Armitage nodded and turned his attention to his meal. He had a lot to think about.

~

The minor confrontation at dinner had been illuminating. It was likely he had previously encountered more of the people here than just Dameron. It was fair to assume that he’d somehow harmed the ones who had expressed the most distaste for him. He was in the position of having to prove that he was not his past self, without knowing what his past self was.

He wondered more and more who he had been. Whatever he had done to draw the rebels’ ire, there must have been a reason for it. A purpose that was larger than individuals. He could not imagine himself causing harm, perceived or otherwise, to this many people for petty reasons…not because he imagined himself some sort of saint, but because it would be pointless. It would bring him more trouble than satisfaction. One or two personal grudges would be one thing. This was something else.

It also reinforced his previous assumption: for the rebels to be spending so much time and effort on him, he must be valuable in some way. They must want or need something from him, something more than the memories he could no longer access. It seemed unlikely that the rebels would allow him to move about the base if he were simply a hostage. Perhaps they hoped he would join the Rebellion, then return to the First Order as a spy. Or perhaps they were after his expertise—he seemed, based on the way he processed information and the observations he found himself making, to be some sort of tactician with an affinity for engineering, or an engineer with an affinity for tactics.

As the days and weeks passed, Armitage made sure to comport himself as a model prisoner. He was friendly to everyone. He ignored resentful looks and veiled insults. He offered his assistance to Rose Tico, who had turned out to be one of only two technicians on the base. (Was the Rebellion truly this small, or did they operate as cells scattered throughout the galaxy?) As expected, Tico turned him down with a scowl, citing the possibility of sabotage; he surprised her by praising the decision as wise.

He did not see much of the girl Rey, who spent a great deal of time alone, in conference with Organa, or off somewhere with Finn. Chewbacca, a sensor ops officer named Kaydel Connix, and an army sergeant called “Salty” Sharp joined Dameron in the babysitting rota; it seemed Dameron was higher in the Rebellion’s chain of command than Armitage had thought, and he was frequently needed elsewhere.

He watched, and he waited, and he tried to be seen being helpful. Time kept passing. It was starting to seem as though the rebels were waiting for something too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When what the rebels have been waiting for finally arrives, Armitage learns a bit more about them—and about his former self.

Connix was walking him to the gym for his morning exercise when a loud whoop from down the passageway made them both stop in surprise. Armitage looked at Connix; a slow smile was breaking out across her face. Then, “Ko!” yelled Poe Dameron, barreling around the corner. “They’re here!”

Dameron skidded to a stop in front of both of them, still grinning. Then he glanced at Armitage with a grimace. “Forget you heard that.”

“Who’s here?” Armitage asked with a pleasant smile.

“Someone,” Dameron said, crossing his arms with a huff.

“You’ve gotta stop doing that,” Connix told him quietly.

Dameron sobered. “I’ll take Red here wherever he was going. You go on.”

Connix blinked. “But—”

“I’ll be along later. Go.”

She went, glancing back over her shoulder as she rounded the bend in the passageway toward the hangar. Dameron didn’t look at her.

“Are you...all right?” Armitage asked when she was gone.

Dameron glanced at him, then back down the corridor. “I’m fine,” he said.

“You don’t _seem_ fine,” Armitage noted, tapping his lower lip.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Dameron said again. “Where were you going?”

They were quiet as Dameron escorted him the rest of the way through the maze of passageways to the gym. Armitage felt awkward. Dameron would have to stay for the duration of his workout. He usually warmed up quickly, went through a long stretching routine, lifted weights a bit, and then did a distance run on the treadmill. He’d found he had an impressive amount of endurance, and keeping his body moving helped him think more clearly. He always ran for at least an hour, often for two, and didn’t really want to cut it short today just because Dameron had somewhere to be.

Upon arrival at the gym, Armitage stepped out of the jumpsuit and folded it neatly. He disliked sweating while wearing that much material, so he’d worn a pair of short trousers and a white undershirt beneath it. “Perhaps someone can relieve you,” he said, setting the jumpsuit aside.

“What?” Dameron said.

“So you can go see your friends.” Armitage retrieved a jump rope and set himself a brisk pace, the cord buzzing through the air as it whipped past his ears.

“Huh,” Dameron said. He made no move to call anyone on his comlink, instead leaning back against the wall, crossing his arms, and giving Armitage an appraising look. With his unruly fall of curly hair, rakish grin, and literally twinkling eyes, he looked like a living recruitment poster. Armitage rolled his eyes.

He jumped rope for ten minutes, enough to get his muscles warm and his heart rate up. Once he’d coiled the rope and put it away, he moved into his first stretch, bending at the waist to flatten his hands on the floor.

“You’re kind of a fussy guy, aren’t you?” Dameron said. Armitage rolled his eyes again and sank into the splits. “Whoa. And flexible.”

If he hadn’t been flushed already, he would be now. Armitage gave Dameron as withering a look as he could manage. “Don’t you want to see your friends?” he deflected.

“No,” Dameron admitted, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I mean, yeah. But no.” He shook his head. “Why do you care?”

“Surely you’re not sticking around here because you _want_ to watch me,” Armitage said. He twisted at the waist and brought his right arm across to clasp the ball of his left foot.

The corner of Dameron’s mouth twitched up. “Do you _want_ me to want to watch you?”

Armitage dropped his gaze to his knee and let out a huff that was perhaps a bit too fervent. “Absurd.”

“Mm,” Dameron hummed enigmatically. “You’re right, though,” he added after a moment. “I should go see them. How much longer are you gonna be?”

“I’ve barely started,” Armitage informed him, twisting toward his other leg.

“Yeah. Well, much as I’d like to see what else you can do—” Armitage’s heart rate seemed to double in an instant. “—I really shouldn’t wait that much longer. I’ll call Chewie and see if he’s free to come down.”

Dameron spent the few minutes it took the Wookiee to arrive watching Armitage stretch. Armitage’s face burned the entire time.

~

He dreamed that night of red, a red so bright it was almost blinding. It surged up, up, up into the sky and beyond, piercing the very heavens with light. It was beautiful, and it made him feel strong.

~

The mysterious arrivals turned out to be more rebels; they’d apparently been away on missions. The level of relief at their return was palpable throughout the base. It seemed like rather too much relief, to Armitage. No one seemed to care as much about the results of the missions as they did about the fact that the people involved in them had returned. He didn’t get even an inkling of what the missions actually were.

Armitage had weathered fewer and fewer angry looks and muttered insults as the weeks passed, but now they were back in full force. The recently returned officers and soldiers had no reason to like him, of course. As for the others, it was as though their friends’ return had reminded them why they hated Armitage in the first place. Again he was struck by how many people knew him, how many apparently had cause to despise him.

The excitement eventually gave way to a sort of somber hope. Armitage became aware of two more human pilots, “Snap” Wexley and Jess Pava, who apparently flew with Dameron. They were surely among the number Dameron considered friends, but whenever Armitage happened to see Dameron near either of them, the normally gregarious pilot was reserved and tended to excuse himself quickly.

During a rare meal with Rey, he decided to ask. “What’s wrong with Dameron?”

Rey paused, meat pastry pouch halfway to her mouth. “What do you mean?”

“When he’s with the pilots who were away, he doesn’t seem happy. Did something happen between them?”

Rey took a huge bite, chewed, and let out a thoughtful hum. “I’m not sure,” she said finally. “I’ll ask Finn.”

That evening, the former stormtrooper himself visited Armitage’s room. He’d never come by before; the two of them had barely spoken in all this time. His grudge had always seemed particularly powerful. Armitage wasn’t sure it was a good idea to let him in, so he didn’t, instead leaving him standing just outside the door.

“What is it?” he asked, hand hovering near the hatchway controls.

Finn did not seem surprised that he wasn’t invited in. “You were asking about Poe,” he said without preamble.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Armitage frowned a bit. “Why not?”

“What are you after?” Finn asked through his teeth.

“I was just curious.”

“Well, it’s none of your business. Poe’s fine.” The former stormtrooper turned to leave.

“He’s not, though,” Armitage said.

“How would _you_ know?” Finn huffed.

“I have eyes.”

Finn whirled back around. “You need to just—stay in here, and leave Poe alone.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s _your fault_.”

Armitage resisted the urge to cross his arms, keeping his hand near the door release. “ _I_ haven’t done _anything_ ,” he said.

Finn leaned closer, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not.” Armitage fought the urge to smash the button and send the hatch crashing down in Finn’s face. “Whatever the former Armitage Hux did...I don’t remember it. I don’t know why he did anything he did. I don’t even know _what_ he did, because no one will tell me. All I know is that _I_ haven’t hurt Poe Dameron. As a matter of fact, I’m asking about him because I’d rather he _not_ be hurt.”

Long seconds dragged by as Finn stared at Armitage, his face hard and his fists clenched. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.

~

Armitage hadn’t seen Leia Organa since the day he woke up here, but the day after his conversation with Finn, she had Rey drop him off at her office.

“Armitage,” she said, waving him into a modest but comfortable armchair. “Have a seat.”

“General,” Armitage nodded as he sat.

“You’re wondering what’s going on with Poe,” Organa said. “Without getting into specifics, he learned a hard lesson recently. He’s lost some confidence as a result, but I have faith he’ll be back to himself soon enough. He’s a fighter, as your past self well knew.”

Armitage didn’t know if the opening was intentional, but he took it. “So I knew him, or knew of him specifically.”

“Yes,” Organa said. She sat down on the corner of her desk. “You knew about Poe, and me, and Rey. Possibly others.”

“We were enemies,” Armitage said.

“Yes.”

Organa was being surprisingly forthright, especially after such a long period of secrecy. “Has something happened?” Armitage asked.

The Rebellion general laughed. “Yes, something has happened. You have demonstrated an interest in the wellbeing of an enemy.”

“I’d hardly call us enemies _now_ ,” Armitage said carefully. “The only point of reference I have is how I’ve been treated since I’ve been here. I don’t know anything else. I don’t know why the former Armitage Hux was allied against you.”

“We don’t know for sure either,” Organa said, “but we have an educated guess, and I’d like to share it with you.”

Armitage sat forward. “Please do.”

“Armitage Hux was very young when he was taken away from his homeworld by the remnants of the Galactic Empire,” Organa said. “His father was an Imperial. It’s likely the Empire, and then the First Order, hidden away from the rest of the galaxy in the Unknown Regions, are all Armitage Hux ever knew.” Organa folded her arms over her chest. “In other words, with a different perspective, he might have grown up quite differently.”

“Are you implying I—he—was brainwashed?”

“Not necessarily. Indoctrinated, certainly. But if the Imperial mindset was all he ever knew, it would be difficult for him to even understand why this rebellion exists. He wouldn’t think of us as freedom fighters. He’d think of us as terrorists. And terrorists are easy to dehumanize.”

“So you wanted to humanize yourselves to me,” Armitage said.

Organa nodded. “I’m sure you recognize that you are a valuable individual to us. This is why. Many in the First Order are lost forever. Finn is the only ‘traitor’ we’ve ever heard of. It’s likely Armitage Hux would never have even considered that the First Order ideology might be mistaken. And so your memory loss was a big opportunity for us, to show you our side without having to battle your preconceptions.”

“I see,” Armitage said. As he’d surmised, the Rebellion’s actions regarding him had been self-serving. No matter what came of it all, he appreciated that Organa didn’t try to sugar-coat that fact.

Armitage sat back and crossed his legs at the knee. “What, then, is your side?”

~

Hope.

That, ultimately, was the underlying concept Armitage was left with after his meeting with Organa. The rebels had hope. Hope that the people of the galaxy could one day live as they wished. Hope that a myriad of voices could come together not as one, but as partners, as colleagues, to solve problems while keeping many perspectives in mind, and without unfairly prioritizing any one group’s needs over another’s.

The First Order, Organa claimed, valued the _appearance_ of peace—a surface calm that masked deep unhappiness. It was, in her mind, a totalitarian movement that put the interests of its ruling class above everything else. As the First Order rose from the remnants of the Empire, a system of government with literally one person at the top, Organa’s impression of its values made sense, even if it was a sentimental reading.

And it was certainly sentimental to entrust the fate of an entire galaxy to the _hope_ that trillions of beings from innumerable planets could find ways to compromise. Organa did not mention the Republic the Empire had replaced, or how bloated and ineffective it had become. The Empire had had barely had two decades to try and put things right before the Alliance to Restore the Republic had destroyed it. And in the New Republic’s three decades of existence, all it had accomplished was the reestablishment of the problems that had plagued the Old Republic.

Armitage was familiar with these concepts, though he didn’t remember the circumstances in which he’d learned them. If it was true that he had not had access to information beyond the First Order’s own histories, it was possible that his understanding was incomplete. At the moment, though, it seemed that a strong hand—the _right_ strong hand—could do the galaxy far more good than a roiling mass of senators, each concerned only with their own interests.

He’d asked Organa for holonet access so that he could do his own research. Unsurprisingly, that request was denied, but Organa had offered to set up meetings for Armitage with other rebels who could offer him a firsthand perspective of galactic history. The oldest human, a general named Caluan Ematt, was Organa’s age, meaning he was born when the Empire came into being and saw it fall when he was in his early 20s. The oldest of all turned out to be Chewbacca, who, at 230 years old, had seen everything: the height of the Old Republic, its fall, the Empire, its fall, and the formation of the New Republic. Armitage agreed to meetings with both immediately; his next priority would be anyone his own age. He was uninterested in the half-formed beliefs of subadults.

Chewbacca was Rey’s co-pilot, and now that the other rebels had returned, the two of them had begun taking short trips off-base. Armitage didn’t know the details of these trips, but it meant that Chewbacca wasn’t immediately available to be interviewed. Caluan Ematt, however, had a few hours free in the afternoon three days after Armitage’s meeting with Organa.

Armitage couldn’t help but feel impatient. He had decisions to make. Plans. He needed as much information as he could get. But getting that information would take time.

He kept up his usual routine: morning caf, long workout, lunch in the mess, sitting in his room till dinner. It was a lot of time to think, especially with no new information, and by the end of the second day he was considering adding an afternoon workout to his schedule just to keep himself busy.

The morning of the third day, Armitage found Dameron waiting outside his quarters. While he’d seen Dameron around the base, they hadn’t really spoken since the last time Dameron had escorted him to the gym.

“Good morning,” Armitage said, hoping he was keeping his face neutral. He felt a strange flutter in his stomach, his pulse picking up. He should probably smile, but if he attempted to, he felt certain the smile would be altogether too...friendly.

“Morning,” Dameron responded easily, shrugging his hands into the pockets of his trousers. When he cocked his head to the side, a lock of curly hair fell over his left eye. “Doing your workout today?”

“Yes,” Armitage said, studiously ignoring Dameron’s hair. He stepped out of his room and let the hatch slide shut.

“Mind if I join you?”

Armitage blinked. “Aren’t you my escort?”

Dameron rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Well...yeah. What I meant was, maybe we could work out together?”

“O-of course,” Armitage stammered.

They made their way to the training room in silence. Once there, Armitage shucked off his jumpsuit as usual, and Dameron shrugged out of his jacket and slid his trousers down his legs. Unlike Armitage’s workout trousers, which ended just above the knee, Dameron’s rode high on his well-defined thighs. He was also wearing a tank top rather than a T-shirt, revealing thick, muscular shoulders. Armitage decided not to look at him.

“I’m not really much of a runner,” Dameron said. “Well, I can run. But I don’t think I like it as much as you do. So I’m gonna use a run to warm up and then focus on other stuff.”

Armitage nodded. “All right.” He retrieved a jump rope while Dameron stepped onto a treadmill.

Again they were silent. Armitage was not uncomfortable, exactly, but he felt a sort of nervous tension, a desire to say something, to hear Dameron speak. He managed to restrain himself through his warm-up, but that was long enough. He debated what to say as he rolled the jump rope and put it away. The list of potential conversational topics was slim, given how little the rebels were willing to tell him. And it didn’t seem like the right time to ask Dameron about the way he’d been behaving around his pilots.

He’d finally decided to remark about his upcoming meeting with Ematt when suddenly Dameron spoke first. “So,” he said, joining Armitage on the floor for leg stretches, “I heard you’ve been asking about me.”

Armitage was not a coward, but he was flooded with the desire to run, to look anywhere but at Dameron’s face. He forced himself to meet Dameron’s gaze. “Yes,” he said.

“I just wanted to say thanks.” Dameron smiled. It wasn’t one of his smooth, casual smiles, and it wasn’t one of his boisterous smiles. It was a different sort of smile. Softer. Quiet, if a smile could be quiet.

“Oh,” Armitage said. “You’re...welcome?”

“I mean,” Dameron continued, finally breaking eye contact to lean over his left knee, “this situation is pretty weird, right? You know we’re on different sides. You know I beat you once.”

Armitage bristled. “I doubt you _beat_ me, Dameron,” he said. “I’m sure I simply lulled you into a false sense of security.”

Dameron seemed to sober at that. “You’re not wrong.”

A long moment passed as they continued stretching. Armitage wondered if the topic was closed. Before he could help himself he blurted, “Is it so strange that I would be interested in your well-being?”

Dameron smiled again. “Yeah. I’m really wondering if I’d be the same, if our situations were reversed.”

“I’ve been told we’re enemies,” Armitage said, “but I don’t _feel_ that. I feel it from others here, certainly. It’s possible that when my memories return I’ll feel it, but for now…” He stretched his arms out over his head, then leaned forward between his legs, resting his chest on the floor. “For now, you’re a person who has, for some reason, welcomed an enemy without hostility. That is interesting to me. You are interesting to me.”

“I fucked up,” Dameron said suddenly. He’d stopped stretching and was just sitting there, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap. “I was trying to be a hero, and I didn’t see the bigger picture. I fucked up _big_. I—a lot of people are dead because of me.”

This did not seem like the moment to be sprawled out across the floor face-down. Armitage pushed himself back up to a sitting position and pulled his legs into a lotus stretch, hands on his feet and elbows atop his knees. He didn’t quite know what to say, so he said nothing.

“I can’t really talk about it with anyone,” Dameron continued, staring at his folded hands. “I mean...I don’t think Leia’s ever fucked up like that in her life. And I know Finn hasn’t. His whole reason for _being_ here is that he didn’t want to kill innocent people. Everything he does is to protect someone. It--it wasn’t like that, for me. It was just about winning. I forgot the most important thing.”

What was the most important thing? Armitage wondered. He hoped Dameron wasn’t going to wax poetic about—about _love_ , or some other sentimental nonsense. But the pilot just sat there, gazing into his own lap, thumbs rubbing back and forth over each other.

Finally Armitage couldn’t stand it anymore. In a voice so quiet he surprised himself, he asked, “What’s that?”

Dameron looked up at him. His eyes were red. “There’s no point in winning the battle if there’s no one left after the war.”

Armitage swallowed, then nodded. Of course that was true. But now the small number of Rebellion fighters at this base took on a whole new meaning. It seemed this was everyone who was left.

Fucked up big, indeed.

“General Organa talked about you a bit,” Armitage said. “She didn’t tell me what happened. But she said she expects you’ll be fine, in time.” He had no idea if that was comforting.

Dameron gave him a small smile. “I’ve gotta be fine,” he said. “I’ve gotta make up for this. I mean, it’s impossible. But I’ve gotta do everything I can.” He shook his head and let out a long breath. “Okay, sorry. Didn’t mean to get all heavy on you. You done stretching?”

“Just about,” Armitage said.

“I think I’m done,” Dameron said. “I’m gonna go ahead to the weights.”

“All right.”

Armitage took a moment to remember where he was in his stretching routine, then resumed it. He thought he felt Dameron’s eyes on him a few times, but he didn’t look.

They continued their workouts silently, Armitage joining Dameron on weights and then heading to the treadmill for his long run. Dameron lifted for quite some time; Armitage found his eyes cutting over to him again and again. Dameron’s tank top was plastered to his chest and glistening shoulders, and his face was sweaty and tinged pink. He was focused on his weight training, eyes incredibly intent. Armitage found himself simultaneously wishing Dameron would turn that gaze on him, and fearing that he would.

At one point between sets Dameron glanced up and caught Armitage looking. He winked, and Armitage stumbled and almost fell. “Arse,” he said, stabilizing himself on the treadmill’s hand grips. Dameron laughed, and Armitage felt a strange sort of relief. It was as though something had shifted, and now they could go back to the way things were before the other rebels had returned. Armitage scowled at Dameron to hide the irrational excitement bubbling up in his chest.

After a good two-hour run, Armitage stepped off the treadmill and shook out his legs. “Finished?” Dameron asked, climbing out of the leg press.

“Yeah,” Armitage said. “Just need to rub my legs down a bit.”

“You didn’t do that before,” Dameron said.

“I do it at most once a week, after a long run,” Armitage explained. “It’s good for the muscles.”

Dameron raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Want me to do it for you?”

Heat flooded Armitage’s body. “Do you actually know how to do a proper massage?”

“Sure,” Dameron said. “Let me show you.”

“Go on then,” Armitage said boldly, surprising himself. He turned away to hide his flushed face and strode at a brisk pace to one of the benches along the wall.

Dameron was right behind him when he turned around to sit. “Hey,” Dameron said, looking up at him with a grin. The pilot was shorter than Armitage, but their height difference had never been so pronounced as it was now, facing each other inches apart. Armitage practically fell backward onto the bench.

Straightening in his seat, Armitage crossed his arms to regain some sense of dignity. “All right,” he said. “How do you want me?” He briefly imagined what it would be like to be lying down with Dameron’s hands on him, and added hastily, “I’d rather sit like this, if that’s all right.”

“Okay,” Dameron said. Then he dropped to one knee.

In this position Dameron was looking up at him again. He had very pretty eyes, especially when viewed from above, with his long eyelashes over them. Armitage swallowed and kept his arms crossed.

“I’ll start with your calves and work up,” Dameron said.

Poe Dameron had nice hands. This was simply an objective fact that Armitage was noting, like anyone else would. His hands were shaped well, not too wide and not too skinny, fingers the perfect length, and there was a reassuring strength in them. His thumbs pressed into Armitage’s shin as the rest of his fingers dug into his calf, and it wasn’t perfect but it was good. Quite good.

“This is a bad angle,” Dameron said, and then he lifted Armitage’s foot and propped it up on his own shoulder. Armitage hugged his elbows and drew in a very slow breath. “That’s better,” Dameron said, kneading his thumbs into Armitage’s calf.

“Ah,” Armitage said. “Yes.” And Dameron grinned at him again.

The massage lasted longer than was strictly necessary. Dameron took his time with every muscle, moving slowly up Armitage’s leg, over his quadriceps, raising his leg back and up to reach his hamstring. When he got to the adductors—the inner thigh—Armitage held his breath, and Dameron looked up at him again, his face sly.

Then he was pulling his hands away, moving Armitage’s foot back to the floor. It was over. And that was good, because Armitage was close to having a problem.

“All right,” Dameron said with a wink, “time for the other one,” and Armitage bit his lip and lowered his hands as discreetly as possible into his lap.

~

The sonic shower he liked to use, the one at the very end, was out of service. Ridiculous. Then again, he oughtn’t to expect much from a ragtag Rebellion base. He was likely lucky they had sonics at all.

Armitage wrapped himself in a towel and paced down the row, looking for a stall that was both unoccupied and operative. This was apparently a tall order. He was almost to the door leading back out to the training area when he suddenly heard Dameron’s voice, low and desperate. He stopped walking.

“I’m just as guilty as he is, Finn,” Dameron was saying. “We both killed them. Paige, and Tallie, and—”

“No,” Finn interrupted. “You’re not the same. Intent matters. He is a mass-murderer. You are a person who made a mistake. Don’t make another one. You can’t trust him.”

Dameron sighed. “I mean. I know,” he said. “But I _don’t_ know. He just seems like a completely different person.” He let out a short chuckle. “Except for the part where it’s easy to rile him up.”

“Poe. If he wasn’t here, if he was back with the First Order commanding his fleet, he wouldn’t hesitate to destroy this base and kill us all.” The hard edge to Finn’s voice seemed to sharpen. “Think about it. He’s trapped here. Of course he’s going to try to get along with us. That doesn’t mean he’s changed. That just means he wants to survive.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Dameron muttered, “He’ll probably be out of the sonic soon.”

Finn sighed. “Just think about it. Okay?”

Dameron said nothing more. Armitage ducked into the nearest stall, in case the pilot came looking for him. Mercifully, this one was operational, so he hung up his towel and activated it.

So. He wasn’t simply a member of the First Order. He was a leader. He commanded a fleet. A _fleet_.

He felt a warm blossoming of pride.

Finn had called him a mass-murderer, but of course he would say that of an enemy leader. Especially an enemy leader who was good at what he did. Killing enemy combatants was, however, part of war. Everyone involved should have known what they were getting into. Armitage didn’t see why he should feel remorse.

What _was_ interesting was what Dameron had said, because it sounded rather as though the decision he regretted, the one that had caused so much loss of life, had been during a battle against Armitage’s forces. _We both killed them_ , he’d said.

It would be natural for Dameron to hate Armitage, just like the rest of the rebels. For some reason, he didn’t. He might hate the former Armitage Hux—Armitage had no information on that—but he didn’t hate who Armitage was _now_.

The sonic finished powering away the sweat from his long workout, and Armitage emerged feeling fresh and light.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Armitage remembers.

The army sergeant called “Salty” was Armitage’s escort to the interview with General Ematt, which took place in what seemed to be a small conference room or office. A few other sergeants stood along the walls, as though Armitage would—or could—attack the general under these circumstances. Armitage had to suppress a smile.

Ematt sat in a folding chair at a featureless metal table. He was a light-skinned human man with white hair that he wore long and a neatly trimmed beard in a mix of white and gray. He was the same age as Organa, but his face bore more lines, especially around the eyes.

Salty guided Armitage to the empty chair opposite, then stepped back. “Thank you, sergeant,” Ematt said. “So. Armitage.”

His name sounded odd in the man’s mouth, as though there was something else he would have preferred to call him. Armitage nodded. “General.”

“General Organa tells me you want to hear the Rebellion’s side of the Galactic Civil War and the Resistance against the First Order.”

“Yes,” Armitage said. “I generally prefer to have all available information.”

“Will this information have an effect on your beliefs and actions, or is it simply a curiosity?”

Ematt seemed to be less of an idealist than Organa, something Armitage could appreciate. “It will have an effect if it is significant,” he said.

“Understood,” Ematt said. “And I hope you understand there are matters I cannot discuss with you, for security reasons.”

“Of course.”

Ematt sat back and folded his hands in his lap. “I started out the same way many young people do, discontented but not sure I could make a difference. I grew up under the Empire. I never knew anything different. People around me were suffering, but I just thought that was the way things were.” He cocked his head to the side. “It took meeting someone who knew better for me to see that things hadn’t always been that way, and that they could be better.”

“Excuse me,” Armitage said, “but what ‘way’ were things? Was it really so bad, or were you simply in a rebellious phase? You weren’t quite twenty when you first fought the Empire, isn’t that correct?”

“That’s correct,” Ematt said. “But here is the way things were. The best option my friends and I had in life was the Imperial Academy, which of course not everyone could get into. The next best option would be inheriting a trade or business from a parent or guardian. For those of us who had such a thing, there was constant danger of being ruined by Imperial embargoes, taxes, and other activities. Regional governors had been putting more and more of their own restrictions on businesses and tradesmen, capitalizing on their positions. It meant you couldn’t get supplies you needed without paying far more than they were worth. It meant you couldn’t sell a product without paying a transaction fee to the government. And the threat of being raided for an inspection was constant. In short, there was no way to flourish. The most you could do was survive.”

Armitage pressed his lips together. “All right.” This didn’t seem like an utterly terrible life. Obviously it wasn’t the life he would want for himself, but when one was exceptional, one naturally rose out of such conditions. The people who weren’t didn’t really _need_ more, did they?

“Let me remind you, that was the best option that wasn’t becoming an Imperial officer,” Ematt said. “But neither of those options was available to all people. The officer program, of course, didn’t take just anyone. There were plenty of people who didn’t have a business or trade, and even those who did often found that demand did not match their operating costs. So the options for those people became begging in the streets, or crime.” He paused, and Armitage recognized the tactic; Ematt wanted that statement, and his next, to have an impact. The rebel general did not break eye contact for a long moment. Then he finished, “And the most vulnerable became victims of everyone else. They were beggars. Indentured servants. Slaves.”

Armitage resisted the urge to give the general a few mocking claps; it probably wouldn’t go over well with the soldiers lining the walls. “Was this your own personal experience?” he asked.

“It was,” Ematt said, “but it was also the experience of many, many others. I didn’t know this until I met Senator Bail Organa.”

“General Organa’s father,” Armitage said.

“Funny how much you seem to remember.”

Irritated, Armitage waved a dismissive hand. “Anyone who’s had a proper education knows the major figures involved in galactic conflicts. Senator Organa was notorious for having fomented rebellion right under the emperor’s nose. His activities were only revealed after his death.”

“I learned of them a bit sooner than that,” Ematt said. “Senator Organa recruited me to the Rebel Alliance when I was a teenager, five years or so before Grand Moff Tarkin ordered the destruction of Alderaan.” He paused, crossing his arms over his chest. “What is your opinion of that order, Armitage?”

The rebels were not likely to approve of Armitage’s opinion. He considered how to frame it. “The choice of target was not ideal.”

“But you believe a planet should have been destroyed? Billions slaughtered at once?”

Armitage sucked his lips between his teeth. “One swift show of force that serves as a deterrent is preferable to decades of costly war.” He quickly realized his error and amended, “Billions more slaughtered, trillions, but over the course of years and years. Ultimately, a far higher death toll. And while this war rages, the Empire can’t focus fully on everyday matters. It can’t fight the crime you mentioned. In those circumstances, a strong yet surgical strike that brings a swift end to the uprising would be ideal.

“Unfortunately,” he added, crossing his legs and folding his hands over his knee, “Governor Tarkin was a shortsighted opportunist, not a strategist. If he suspected Organa, he wasted the opportunity to track him and find other rebels. If he didn’t, he fired on a peaceful, civilian population for no reason, and ultimately turned more systems against the Empire.”

Ematt gazed at him for a moment. Then he said, gruffly, “Did you have any other questions, Armitage?”

The man was done with him. Armitage uncrossed his legs and sat forward. “Wait, please, General. I am interested in your insight. What is your opinion of the Alderaan order?”

“Billions of people were murdered,” Ematt said flatly. “Billions. It’s hard to wrap your head around that kind of number. If you didn’t know any of the victims, maybe you can’t even begin to understand what it means. Maybe you can write all those people off as an acceptable loss.” Ematt stood. “I can’t. Every single one of those lives had value. Every single one. The royal family. The farmers. The tradespeople. The beggars. The criminals. Every life. Not a single one of them deserved to die. Not a single one of them was an ‘acceptable loss.’ And the same is true of any planet. Any system.

“That was what Bail Organa taught me: that all life is sacred. That, Armitage, is why I fought an Empire that valued certain lives, the lives of the powerful and privileged, over the lives of everyone else. And it’s why I fight you now.”

He’d maintained his composure, but that last statement made it apparent just how angry the general had become. “General Ematt,” Armitage said, “I apologize—”

But Ematt had already turned away. “We’re done here,” he said, and he left the room without another word.

~

The interview with Ematt had not gone the way Armitage had hoped, but he supposed he should be thankful he got any information at all. It seemed clearer than ever that the rebels hated Armitage Hux personally. He was probably lucky Ematt had even agreed to the interview.

Armitage spent the rest of the day in his room. The blue and white astromech, which he’d since learned was designated R2-D2, brought him both his dinner and a long tirade in binary. “I can’t change who I was,” he told it. “If you people would give me a chance, I might be a different person now.” He didn’t know if he would. The rebels seemed hopelessly idealistic. But he had to appeal to that idealism if he wanted to survive.

The droid blew him a dismissive electronic raspberry as it left.

Armitage picked at his tasteless rations, then sprawled back on his slim cot and stared at the ceiling, running through his conversation with Ematt again and again in his mind. He’d made a critical error. Ematt had seemed less driven by emotion and more by logic, and Armitage had responded to this with frankness. By doing so, he may have confirmed all of Ematt’s preconceptions.

He may have signed his own death warrant.

Up till now, his strategy had been to win the rebels over while learning as much as he could about what was happening in the galaxy and what his personal situation was. He hadn’t learned very much...and now it appeared that he hadn’t won anyone over, either. He doubted that even those who’d been accepting of him would come to his defense if the majority was against him. Leia Organa had been giving him a chance, but as a survivor of Alderaan, she likely wouldn’t be sympathetic now. Rey knew that his memory loss was real, but that didn’t mean she would think he was worth saving. And Dameron…

Armitage didn’t actually know about Dameron. He’d like to hope that the man was more open to letting him live. But Dameron may have been playing his own game—lulling Armitage into a false sense of security in order to catch him in a lie or reveal his true nature. Armitage had been trusting the rebels to be fair and forthright with him, and this may have been a gross underestimation of their guile.

It was, he decided, time to change his strategy.

Armitage rolled off the cot. He hadn’t been idle these past months. He had, of course, thoroughly searched and inventoried his room. He’d also paid attention wherever he’d gone on base, creating a mental map and noting items and locations that might be useful to him later. Over time, he’d managed to sneak things into the pockets of his coveralls here and there. The result was a collection of parts, hidden in various places around his quarters, and the beginnings of a plan.

Now was the time to enact that plan. The first thing Armitage did was build a rudimentary comlink and patch it into the door console. With this, he could appear to be in his room by answering the door remotely. Before he closed the console back up, he also snipped the wire leading away from the sensor that detected when the door was opened.

The second thing he did was cobble together a droid restraining bolt and remote. These he would use to gain information and access to restricted parts of the base. He would have preferred a datapad, but they were far more complex to build, and the necessary parts didn’t tend to be left lying around. He would have to use a droid as a proxy, for now.

He tested the comlink a few times, trying to slow the racing of his heart. After so long doing nothing, he was finally going to act. But he needed to stay focused.

The comlink worked. The restraining bolt seemed to be in working order as well, though he wouldn’t truly know until he tried it on a droid. He was as ready as he was going to be.

It might be prudent to wait for a more opportune time, but after that talk with Ematt, Armitage wasn’t sure he had much time left at all. It would have to be now. He waited until he could discern no sound outside his door. Then he tapped the release to slide it open and made his way out into the base for the first time without an escort.

His first stop was a supply closet, where he found a skullcap to hide his hair. It wouldn’t fool anyone who was really looking, and he couldn’t hide his height, so he would have to be as unobtrusive as possible. He just had to find a droid, quickly.

He slipped out of the supply closet and strode quietly and purposefully in the general direction of the command center, working to give the impression that he belonged where he was. A group of pilots passed him without giving him so much as a look. Bolstered by this, Armitage scanned the hallways that branched out around him, searching for a droid that would suit his purpose.

“We must go to Princess Leia at once!” came a mechanical voice from around a corner. It sounded like a protocol droid; Armitage felt an odd flood of warmth at the fussy tenor.

A familiar squawk of binary answered the urgent droid.

“Now don’t get smart. You haven’t got the circuits.”

There was a metallic clang, and then Armitage saw them, a golden protocol droid and the blue and white astromech who’d brought Armitage’s dinner. R2-D2. Armitage watched as they shuffled and rolled hurriedly down the far hallway.

R2-D2 would be ideal. With his arsenal of data probes, he could access any of the systems on the base. Armitage didn’t know if there were any other astromechs available. This might be his best chance. He’d follow, wait until R2 was alone, and fit him with the restraining bolt.

The droids led him straight to the command center. Armitage lingered in a side hallway, played at checking the connections between the data, power, and environmental lines in the low ceiling as if he were a technician called in for that purpose. The number of people he’d encountered so far was not as high as it would have been during the day, which was both a relief and a worry; there were fewer people to notice him, but without a crowd, he was more noticeable.

Armitage had never actually seen the command center. He had developed a vague idea of where it was based on the comings and goings of others, but he hadn’t known the way precisely until now. It lay beyond an extraordinarily thick hatch with at least three override countermeasures that Armitage could immediately make out. He couldn’t get to R2 while the protocol droid was there. He’d have to wait for the droids to reemerge and hopefully split up.

The hatch slid open, and Armitage couldn’t help glancing over. General Organa stood there, looking tired. She waved the droids inside with a brief but warm “Come on, you two.” Then she looked straight at Armitage. “You may as well come in, too,” she said.

~

“Armitage,” General Organa said, “I’m glad you decided to stop by. I’ve just received a message from the First Order.”

Armitage had entered the command center to find Dameron, Finn, Rey, and Chewbacca inside, as well as General Ematt, Lt. Connix, and an admiral and a commander he hadn’t met. No introductions were made.

“I’ve seen the message myself already,” Organa said to the group. “I’d like the rest of you to watch it as well, and then we will discuss what should be done about their demand.” She nodded to the astromech. “R2?”

A slot popped open on the blue and white droid’s side, and Organa slid a data stick into it. The droid then rolled to the center of the open space between consoles and activated his holoprojector. As the image flickered to life, Dameron sucked in a breath.

“General Organa,” thundered the black-robed figure in a low, stilted voice, “it has come to my attention that you have something of mine.”

A few heads in the room turned toward Rey, but Armitage barely noticed. The holographic figure before him had wild hair and even wilder eyes, a twisted, scowling mouth, and broad, powerful shoulders. Armitage knew him. He knew him, and he was frozen to the spot.

“Well done,” Kylo Ren gritted out, sounding far more irritated than impressed. “Kidnapping a First Order general is no easy feat. I suppose Rey had something to do with it.”

Armitage let out a short, high-pitched laugh. He was shaking so hard the holoprojection had become a blur.

“I’ll make this simple for you, _Mother_ ,” Ren said. “Give me back General Hux, or I will turn my fleet on every planet that has ever harbored you. I’ll destroy them all, just like we destroyed D’Qar.” Even as a projection he looked huge, enormous hands balled into fists, big shoulders rising and falling with each breath. “You know I will,” he said. “You’ve got two weeks to send him back. You know where to find us.”

The image disappeared, and all the strength left Armitage’s legs. He collapsed hard on the permacrete floor, still shaking.

There was something there now, something blossoming at the edges of his consciousness, inky blackness bleeding into brilliant white, threatening to suffocate everything. He felt like he knew what it was, and he didn’t want it to come any further. He wanted it to stay there, in the periphery where he couldn’t see it. He wanted to close his eyes.

The trembling wouldn’t stop, and now he was remembering how his arm had felt as it broke in two, the sickening snap, too loud—the sharp, lightning pain shooting up his arm and neck and straight into his head—the awful throbbing in his side, the ragged, raw feeling of air gasping through his throat, the blood, the blood—

_It wasn’t supposed to be like this_ —

He would not beg, he would _not_ , he was better than that—

He would not run, he was not a coward, he’d survived this before, he could do it again—

His eyes were hot, wet but impossibly dry, and there was a rushing in his ears, and he thought he heard someone saying his name—

And suddenly the whiteness was there again, a perfect landscape of snow dissolving into a white sky. He drew a long, shuddery breath, then another, closing his eyes in relief.

“Armitage,” said Rey’s voice.

“Scavenger,” Armitage said automatically.

“Jedi,” Rey corrected him. “Open your eyes, Armitage.”

He did. Rey stood before him, brilliant light like a halo around her.

“Something happened, Armitage,” she said. “I brought you here to make it stop. I think...this is the place you created to make it stop, before.”

Armitage pressed his palms into his eyes. He’d run away. He’d run away.

“Do you remember?” Rey asked.

“I don’t want to.” Armitage shook his head. “But I…” _I won’t run away again_ , he wouldn’t say to her. He thrust his arms down to his sides, balled his fists, and straightened his shoulders.

It had happened again. He’d sworn he’d never let it happen again, but it had happened anyway. He hadn’t stopped it. He hadn’t made it stop. He—

He’d learned so long ago that he couldn’t trust anyone, but in the years since, he’d let himself forget. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t.

He didn’t know how to keep it from happening again.

“You have to tell me, Armitage,” Rey said.

“No.”

“I don’t want to...take it, the way he does.”

“Then don’t.”

Always with the smart mouth. He never could seem to just shut up. But who was he, if he just gave the rebels everything? He was not a coward.

And that, when it came down to it, was his situation. It was his _life_. He wouldn’t compromise his principles, and for that he would be broken.

“All right,” Rey said. “I won’t.” He blinked at her in surprise, and she added, “Go to sleep, Armitage.”

The bright white world faded, not to the inky blackness but to a dull sort of warmth. Armitage closed his eyes.

~

When Armitage woke he was back in his assigned quarters. Someone had removed his boots, but he was still wearing the technician’s jumpsuit under his thin blanket and sheet. He was more relieved than he thought he should be, given his situation.

He remembered, now. He remembered Arkanis, water pouring down endlessly outside, his father’s wrath raining down endlessly inside. He remembered the rebel attack and his “rescue,” which had changed nothing but the view out the window. He remembered how, after orchestrating Brendol’s death, he’d so naively believed that was the end of it.

He remembered Kylo Ren, strong, fearless, powerful; Kylo Ren who could have been an ally but wouldn’t even consider the possibility; Kylo Ren who dismissed him at every turn, as a prince would a servant.

Kylo Ren who was free now, who had everything he ever wanted, but who still wanted more. Kylo Ren who was insatiable; Kylo Ren who saw nothing but his own desires.

Kylo Ren who viewed all others, even Armitage, as obstacles or tools, nothing else.

Kylo Ren who was beautiful, whose unmasked face bared so much, even as it hid so much more. Kylo Ren whose deceptive innocence should have been the scavenger girl’s undoing, as it had been Armitage’s own.

He found, suddenly, that he hated her, even as he remembered that she had left his mind, she had not forced her way into the dark memories that had come rushing back.

It was irrational. He hated her because she hadn’t fallen for it, and he hated himself because he had.

Armitage had his memories now, all of them.

He wondered why he wasn’t dead.

As he sat up, dragging a hand over his face, his door comm activated. “Red?” buzzed Dameron’s voice. “Mind if I come in?”

It didn’t matter, did it? They could do whatever they wanted. He was their prisoner. “Fine,” Armitage said.

Dameron seemed oddly cautious as he stepped through the doorway and made his way to the room’s single chair. “How’re you feeling, buddy?”

Armitage had to laugh at the friendly moniker. “Alive, for now,” he said.

Dameron sat, leaning his forearms on his knees. “You want to talk about what happened?”

“I’m more interested in what you’re planning to do with me,” Armitage said.

“That depends on you.”

“Is that so.”

Dameron sighed. “Look, buddy, you know it’s not looking great. You snuck out without an escort, and we found gear on you that you weren’t supposed to have. What it looks like is you got your memories back and you were trying to escape.”

Armitage scoffed. “That would have been a poor escape attempt,” he said. “All I wanted was information that’s been denied me.”

“Now see, that’s what I said. You’re a smart guy, you want to know more about your situation.”

Armitage raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“When Leia—er, General Organa—sensed you skulking around, she’d already seen that message. She wanted to see what your reaction would be.”

“Well,” Armitage said tersely, “I hope she enjoyed it.”

“Pretty sure she didn’t expect _that_ ,” Dameron said, and Armitage rolled his eyes. “No, but listen, that’s the thing. Rey says you probably do have your memories back _now_ , thanks to the message. If you’re back to being General Hugs—”

“Really,” Armitage said in a flat voice. (He would not think about that humiliation, nor what had come after. He wouldn’t.)

“Sorry,” Dameron said. “That was a cheap shot.”

Armitage wondered if Dameron was actually sorry. Surely not. Surely he’d been chosen to talk to Armitage because they’d spent so much time together. The rebel leadership likely assumed Armitage would trust Dameron, at least to a degree.

Unfortunately for them, Armitage had learned by now what trust wrought.

“What reason do we have,” Dameron pressed on, “not to treat you as the war criminal you are? We were sort of hoping that you’d come to see reason, that you’d realize the First Order is totalitarian and brutal and _wrong_ , but I have no idea if that ever got through to you, and now you’re back to being the guy who thought blowing up five planets was a great idea.”

Armitage felt his cheek twitch. He had, hadn’t he? Eager to please Snoke, eager to rectify Ren’s mistake. Eager to show Ren that he, too, was valuable—

Snoke hadn’t cared about Starkiller, about its imperial pedigree or how Armitage had overseen the team that made those outlandish ideas _work_. And Ren hadn’t even come to the firing ceremony.

What was all of it even _for_?

Armitage licked his lips, swallowed, and turned his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “So I’m not to be summarily executed, then?”

Dameron let out an exasperated sigh and raked a hand back through his hair. “Not yet, anyway. But you gotta give me _something_.”

“What could I possibly say that would help?”

The long pause told him everything. Armitage was already shaking his head when Dameron said, “You could tell me what happened—”

“No,” Armitage said. “Why? What would that prove?”

“That you’re human. That you’re capable of trusting someone.”

Armitage laughed mirthlessly. “If that’s what it takes, you may as well bring me to the firing squad now.”

Dameron stared at him for a moment, then looked down. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay. I...think I get where you’re coming from. I’m not gonna—I’ll leave you alone.” He looked conflicted, as though there were more words on the tip of his tongue that he was swallowing back.

Armitage watched silently as Dameron stood and made his way out of the room. Then he lay back down on his cot and stared up at the ceiling again.

Being here was his greatest shame. Worse than anything he’d suffered under his father, or Snoke, or…

He closed his eyes and sighed. His duty was to the First Order and he had abandoned it, fled across the galaxy, been picked up by rebels of all people, and spent _weeks_ consorting with them, as though his responsibilities didn’t exist. He’d abandoned his post and deserved to be court-martialed, and the only thing that might save him was the memory loss. Conveniently, he hadn’t known what he was doing. The effects should be visible on a brain scan. He should be able to argue his case, prove that he was not truly derelict.

Except he wasn’t sure that he wasn’t. He wasn’t sure when he’d actually lost his memory. Everything after—after _that_ was a blur, until he awoke in Rebellion custody. He supposed those memories weren’t coming back, not that he particularly wanted them.

He just wished he knew whether he deserved to live or not.

It didn’t matter. His fate was no longer in his control in any way. Either the rebels would kill him, or…

Armitage opened his eyes, his hands coming up to fist in his hair. Ren wanted him back, and he doubted it was because he suddenly saw Armitage’s worth. For that to happen, Ren would have to develop enough self-awareness to see that he needed help. At best, Ren wanted a familiar face as a toady. Most likely, he was angry, and wanted to exact some sort of revenge.

It would be fitting to be killed by Ren, to let him go ahead and finish what he’d started. Fitting for Armitage’s last deed to be one last attempt to please Ren. After all, wasn’t that the summary of his life? After disposing of Brendol, after taking the power that was rightfully his, wasn’t the only thing left Ren’s approval? Hadn’t Armitage spent years working to ingratiate himself to Ren, to impress him in some way? And when that hadn’t worked, when Ren’s unending disdain had spoiled what should have been Armitage’s greatest triumph, hadn’t that driven Armitage to desperation?

Pathetic. Armitage Hux was utterly pathetic, and soon he would die. A life that had had no meaning whatsoever would end, and no one would mourn.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that his memories have returned, Armitage is faced with a decision...and with his trauma.

Armitage’s next visitor, some few hours after Dameron slouched out of the room, was Organa. The rebels had apparently given up on the soft approach.

“All right, let’s have it,” the general said. Armitage by this point was sitting in the room’s single chair; he didn’t offer it to her, and she didn’t demand it. Instead she stood, hands on her hips, and gazed at him in a way that made her seem far more imposing than he’d expect from a person of her stature. Armitage briefly considered standing, but even though he was a full head taller than her, he wasn’t sure it would help.

“Let’s have what?” he asked, forcing himself to meet her eyes, noticing again their deep, rich brown. Now he knew why he had recognized them; they were the same as her son’s.

At that thought, he looked away without meaning to, gaze dropping to the floor. He feigned interest in a fine, spidery crack in the permacrete.

“Your decision,” Organa said, sounding impatient. “Are you interested in going back to the First Order? Or would you rather stay here?”

At this, Armitage looked back at her, smiling mirthlessly. “Surely you’re not letting me choose.”

“You may be General Armitage Hux now,” Organa said, “but the Armitage we’ve come to know these past several weeks is still in there too.”

“You can’t possibly prioritize my life, the life of your enemy, over the lives of the billions Ren’s going to kill,” Armitage said. His voice almost broke on _Ren_ , but he powered past it. “What’s really going on?”

“That’s what we’d like to know,” Organa said. “Think about what you just said. You think it’s foolish to prioritize one life over billions. And you’re right. The First Order should logically share that opinion. Why would Kylo Ren lay waste to planets he could claim for the Order—many he’s already claimed? Why would he destroy all those resources?”

“You don’t know Kylo Ren,” Armitage told her.

The words should have cut her to the bone, but Organa did not react. “You’re right,” she said. “Perhaps you can explain him to me. Is he bluffing?”

Armitage snorted. “He’s not bluffing.”

“What does he want with you?”

“Revenge? I’m sure he considers my being here with you a betrayal.”

“He seemed to think you’d been kidnapped, unless you think _that_ was a bluff.”

Armitage shook his head. “Fine, then maybe he’s afraid you’re forcing me to help you design weapons.” He _would_ think something like that. He never respected Armitage, but he also never respected the Order. He didn’t understand what dedication to a cause _meant_. The only commitment Kylo Ren had ever made was to his own desires.

“He wants you alive,” Organa pointed out.

“It probably didn’t even occur to him to tell you to execute me.”

“He said you were his.”

Armitage couldn’t meet her penetrating gaze any longer. He focused his eyes on the elaborate gold brooch pinned to her collar. “He thinks the whole Order is his,” he said, the words coming out weaker than he intended. “Maybe he wants to kill me himself.”

“Which brings us back to the question at hand,” Organa said. “It doesn’t sound like you have much to go back to.”

Armitage felt himself slump a bit in the chair. She was right, but there was nothing here for him either. “I suppose what you’re really asking is where I want to die.”

“I’m going to be completely honest with you, General,” Organa said. “You’re too dangerous to return to the Order. While your battle inexperience and tactical errors have benefited us quite a bit—”

“I beg your pardon—”

“—your strategic ability and weapons development skills are considerable, and we can’t afford to have you leading the Order.”

“Kylo Ren—”

“—is Supreme Leader, I’ve heard,” Organa said, smiling thinly. “But we both know who would really be running things, don’t we?”

Armitage blinked at her. Then he licked his lips and looked away. “You severely overestimate my ability to influence Kylo Ren.”

Organa crossed her arms. “Even if that’s true, there are ways to lead without being the one with the title. I grew up in the Empire and served in the Imperial Senate; I saw what went on. And I also know some of the things you’ve done in order to get to the position of general.” She cocked her head to the side; the gesture was discomfiting. “What interests me is that you know all this. You know what you would need to do to take control. And yet you’ve shown no indication of wanting to go back.”

She was right. He should have acted more interested when she implied that sending him back was an option. He should have _been_ more interested.

She was right, and his father had been right too. Armitage was weak.

The Order needed him. His loyalty was to the Order. Nothing else mattered. It was his duty to—

His chest felt tight. Heavy. And breathing didn’t feel right. It was as if air was going in, but then not going anywhere. He couldn’t seem to inhale deeply enough.

“General,” Organa said, “you’re not looking so good.”

Armitage tried to laugh. It sounded more like a wheeze. Sitting up suddenly seemed exhausting. He stumbled from the chair to the bed and lay down on his back, fighting for breath.

Organa moved to stand beside the bed. “This is the second time you’ve had a severe physical reaction to the thought of returning to the First Order. If you want me to help you, I need to know why.”

He didn’t know why she would want to help him. He didn’t think she _could_ help him. He still couldn’t breathe. Armitage closed his eyes and shook his head.

“I’ll send the doctor in,” Organa said, her voice sounding far away.

~

He’d had a panic attack.

He, Armitage Hux, who’d met Snoke’s unreasonable demands and endured his derision for years, who’d survived the destruction of Starkiller Base, who’d gotten right back up and back to work every time, gone days without sleep but gotten the job _done_ , had had a fucking _panic attack_.

Weak.

Dr. Kalonia had led him through a breathing exercise he shouldn’t need and advised him to get some rest and be sure to eat his dinner. Organa hadn’t come back. His meal arrived at the usual time, carted in by the same blue and white astromech he’d hoped to reprogram for his own use. Well, that plan was all shot to hell now.

He should be devising a new strategy. But his thoughts kept circling back on themselves until they were utterly meaningless.

His dinner was still mostly untouched hours later when his door comm alerted him to a visitor. “It’s me,” Dameron said, as though they were friends. Perhaps they had been, when Armitage didn’t remember who he was. He lay on the cot and stared at the ceiling and said nothing.

After a moment the door slid open. “Sorry,” Dameron said, practically slinking in. He curled himself into the chair, looking uncomfortable. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Nothing’s stopping you.”

“I wanted to—” Dameron cleared his throat. “Do you remember when I was a prisoner on the _Finalizer_? After Kylo razed Tuanul.”

Armitage raised his eyebrow at _Kylo_ but did not comment. “Of course.”

“Uh. Well, some stuff happened to me. It didn’t really...get to me at the time, I was running on adrenaline. But after that, after Finn rescued me and I found my way back, it, uh…”

Dameron scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’d seen him do horrible things. But that was the first time he ever did anything to _me_.”

“Who?” Armitage couldn’t help but ask.

“Kylo.” Dameron hunched over his knees, lacing his fingers together. “I didn’t know him from before, not really. I’d seen him around, our parents knew each other. But I guess...I had this idea about who he was, because I knew who Leia was, and I thought someone who had Leia for a mother had to be good somewhere on the inside. I thought maybe he did all those horrible things at a distance, like he made other people do them for him and didn’t do any of it himself. I guess I kind of...trusted him? That when it came down to it, he’d do the right thing. It sounds so stupid now.”

Armitage was silent, watching Dameron’s face. His brown eyes were downcast, and he kept chewing at his lower lip.

“Somehow,” Dameron said, closing his eyes, “I could handle random, faceless soldiers knocking me around. At least, I was sort of prepared for it. But—” He looked up then, intent. “He didn’t care. He just...rooted around, dug around in there like it didn’t matter that he was scrambling my brains. It was.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It was the fucking scariest thing I have ever experienced.” Dameron’s hands had, at some point, started trembling. “I didn’t think he would do that. I didn’t think he would do that.”

A sickening roiling in Armitage’s stomach made him glad he hadn’t eaten his dinner. He forced his breathing to stay controlled. “Why are you telling me this,” he gritted out, not even managing to make it a question.

“Because,” Dameron said quietly, “I think this is something you can relate to.”

Armitage rolled onto his side, facing the wall, and immediately regretted the childish tell. He didn’t know what he could say to refute the statement.

“Did he do that?” Dameron asked. “The way you were when we found you. All the—”

“Yes,” Armitage broke in, to shut him up. He probably shouldn’t reveal the Supreme Leader’s anger issues to the rebels like this, but then again, they’d already seen it for themselves, hadn’t they? “He nearly crushed my throat three times,” Armitage said flatly, keeping it clinical. “He broke my ribs throwing me into a console. He threw me off a command platform and I broke my arm. I sustained various cuts, bruises, and strains from more minor interactions. Have I satisfied your curiosity?”

“Shit,” Dameron said.

Armitage heard cloth rustling, then felt the bed dip as Dameron sat down behind his legs. “Don’t touch me,” he said preemptively, and hated himself for that too.

“I won’t,” Dameron promised. “I’m sorry.”

The pilot seemed to not know what else to say. True to his word, he didn’t touch Armitage, but Armitage could just sense the heat of him radiating against the backs of his legs. After a long silence the thought of Dameron sitting there where he couldn’t see him grew unbearable, so he pushed himself toward the head of the bed, propping himself up in the corner where the bed met the wall and pulling his legs in against his body.

Dameron looked at him in a way that made him want to smack him across the face. Armitage Hux was not a man to be pitied. He was a man to be feared. Yet here Dameron was gazing at him with sad eyes and knotted eyebrows, with lips pressed together in concern. It was intolerable.

“Stop that,” Armitage said.

Dameron blinked, and his face was back to normal. “Stop what?”

“That face you were making.”

Dameron offered him a rueful grin. “Sorry.”

Armitage was smiling back before he realized it. He shook his head and pulled his mouth into a frown.

“That was a nice smile,” Dameron said.

Armitage’s cheeks burned. “Why are you here?” he barked.

Dameron sobered, and Armitage immediately regretted the question. “I wanted to let you know that you aren’t alone,” Dameron said. “And also that there’s someone here who can help you work through things, if you’re interested. So you can...get past it.”

“That seems an odd offer to make to a political prisoner you consider a war criminal,” Armitage said.

“That’s what’s different about us. How we’re different from the First Order.”

“I’m sure my engineering skills and intimate knowledge of the Order have nothing to do with it.” Armitage fought back a grimace at his word choice.

Mercifully, Dameron didn’t remark on it. “You’re just...really cynical, aren’t you?” he said instead, smiling with what looked like exasperation.

“I’m realistic,” Armitage corrected him.

“That guy I mentioned—the one who might be able to help? He’s pretty defeatist. You might like him.”

“Well then,” Armitage said, spreading his arms magnanimously. “By all means, send him here. Though please do ensure he isn’t carrying any concealed weapons or poisons.”

Dameron laughed. “I promise.”

~

Armitage tossed and turned that night and woke bleary yet strangely alert. He didn’t have particularly high hopes for whatever counselor Dameron was sending. The Republic dealt with sentient assets in a disorganized, roundabout way, expending inordinate amounts of time and resources on therapies that seemed far less effective than a simple reconditioning. He expected a person even sappier than Ematt, someone who would blither on about _feelings_ and _empathy_ and other useless things. As the time of the appointment neared, Armitage was regretting ever agreeing to it at all.

It was a surprise when the “guy” Dameron had recommended turned out to be a golden protocol droid.

“Hello!” the droid said upon entering the room. Armitage belatedly recognized him; it was the same droid who’d been with the blue and white one, R2-D2, the night Armitage had seen the holo. “I am C-3PO, human/cyborg relations,” the protocol droid continued. “I am fluent in over six million forms of communication, and I am well-versed in the customs of tens of thousands of cultures. Some have found it helpful to discuss their life situations with me, and Captain Dameron has sent me to offer those services to you.”

“Cheers,” Armitage replied. He’d risen from the bed and crossed the room to stand before the droid; now he ducked his head in a respectful nod. “My name is Armitage.”

The droid’s photoreceptors dimmed and brightened in a simulation of a blink. “I do believe that is the first time I have ever completed an introduction. Of myself, that is.” He paused. “Well. Thank you. Shall we begin?”

3PO surely wouldn’t be able to fit in Armitage’s narrow desk chair, so Armitage offered him the bed and sat in the chair himself, facing him. Once they were both settled, 3PO said, “I’m sure it must be strange for you to be here now that your memories have returned.”

It was a patronizing question, and coming from anyone else it would have raised Armitage’s hackles, but Armitage found he didn’t mind it from 3PO. The droid physically resembled Kayfour, Armitage’s personal protocol droid, which might have something to do with it. They had very similar chassis; the finish was the main difference. Their voices were similar as well, though Kayfour’s was pitched lower.

“Quite,” Armitage said. “I’m surprised I’ve survived this long, to be honest. I spent so much time outside this room. There were plenty of opportunities.”

3PO blinked again, then seemingly ignored the comment. “If you could forget everything again, would you?” he asked.

“I’m not letting Rey root around in my head,” Armitage said, crossing his arms. “The point is moot.”

“It’s a hypothetical, sir. It’s meant to help you identify your true feelings and motivations.”

Armitage leaned back in the chair, gazing up at the ceiling. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I don’t like not having all available information. But in that case...ignorance truly was bliss.” He looked back to 3PO. “It’s strange to think about the past seven weeks. I remember it all, but it’s as if they’re someone else’s memories.”

“You were still you, sir. Just a you who hadn’t had certain experiences.”

Armitage felt his cheek twitch. “How much of who we are is shaped by our experiences?” he asked. “How can I know that was even me?”

“If I may, I have been memory-wiped many times, but my personality remains intact. And as I understand it, sir, your logic and decision-making during your period of amnesia were similar to what were expected.”

Of course; the conversation with Ematt. Armitage frowned, but said nothing.

“Princess Leia—General Organa thinks if you’d had more time, you might have come to understand the logic of the Rebellion. Would you have preferred that?”

Armitage had to laugh. “What an odd question. Would I have preferred it if I’d decided during my memory loss that the Rebellion is right after all, and that I should join it?”

“Yes,” 3PO said.

“What I would _prefer_ ,” Armitage began, but then he stopped, frowning again.

“Yes?”

“Never mind.”

“What is it, sir? Perhaps we can be of help.”

“Not unless you can alter time.”

3PO shifted a bit on the bed. “Master Luke said something like that to me once,” he said, sounding nostalgic. “He wanted the future to arrive more quickly. Is that what you want?”

Armitage snorted. “What future is there for me? No, I’d rather change the past.”

3PO straightened with apparent interest. “What would you change, sir?”

What _wouldn’t_ he change, at this point? There was so much that should have gone differently. One thing, though, did spring immediately to mind. Armitage gripped his knees, stared at his whitened knuckles. He’d kill Kylo Ren.

Of course, he couldn’t say that here. “I’d make sure I never trusted him,” Armitage said instead.

“‘Him,’” 3PO repeated. “Do you mean Master Ben?”

At that Armitage blinked, looked up. “Beg pardon?”

“Master—er, that is, Kylo Ren,” 3PO stuttered.

Armitage stared at the droid for a long moment. “You knew Ren when he was young,” he said finally.

“Well, er, yes.”

Questions flooded Armitage’s mind. _Was he always like this? Was his father weak? Did he love his mother? How did he see through the Republic’s propaganda? Has he had other lovers? Did he—did they—_

He closed his eyes and pressed his palms hard into the sockets.

“Sir,” 3PO said, “are you all right?”

Laughter exploded up from somewhere deep within him, shaking his shoulders, making his chest shudder. He couldn’t stop. Tears burned at his eyes.

“No,” he managed, hugging his elbows. What a ridiculous question. He’d already shown his weakness to these rebels; they knew he wasn’t _all right_. Sucking in air, Armitage finally calmed himself. “Tell me about Ben Solo,” he commanded.

3PO looked uncomfortable. “I—I’m not sure I can comply, sir. I was told to listen and ask questions.”

“You’re here to help me, aren’t you?”

“Well. Yes,” 3PO allowed.

“It will help me to hear about him. Whatever you can say.” This was a lie; even thinking about Ren was unpleasant. But it was necessary. He needed information. And he should be able to handle it. He should be able to handle all of this.

“Master Ben was very energetic as a child,” 3PO said, sounding nervous. “He—sir, really, I’m not quite sure I am suited for this.”

“When did you know him? What ages?”

“I was with Master Ben from his birth until he went to the Jedi school.”

“Which was…?”

“He was eight, sir.”

Armitage nodded. 3PO was right; he didn’t have any useful information, except the fact that Ben Solo had been at the Jedi school for many years. “I don’t suppose Luke Skywalker is here,” he said.

“Master Luke? Master Luke is—” 3PO cut himself off. “Er. No.”

Skywalker was apparently the only one who would know anything about Ben Solo as a young man, before he was Kylo Ren. Well, other than the Knights of Ren; they’d also been there. But Armitage was even less likely to talk with one of them than he was to get out of his current predicament. He’d only ever seen one of them in person, briefly from across a hangar bay. He was rarely involved in their missions, just as he’d rarely been involved in Ren’s before the man had taken up co-commanding the _Finalizer_ in his quest to find Skywalker.

Armitage supposed Ren must still be looking. He seemed to spend a lot of time looking for people. Skywalker, Rey...now, even Armitage himself. Goosebumps rose along his arms, and he briskly rubbed them down.

3PO chose that moment to ask helpfully, “Would you like to talk about Kylo Ren?”

“No.” Kylo Ren was a selfish, entitled brat, a prince who thought he was owed the galaxy simply for existing. He was not worth Armitage’s consideration. He did not deserve the First Order.

Armitage should never have left. He should have stayed. He should have kept plotting. Surely an opportunity would have presented itself. He could have killed Ren. He could have—

_Could_ he have? Wasn’t it his weakness that had driven him away, his inability to do what needed to be done?

“I hate him,” Armitage hissed under his breath.

“Beg pardon?” 3PO asked.

“I _hate_ him,” Armitage said, rising abruptly from the chair. 3PO jolted on the bed, almost falling onto his back. “I hate that he exists. I hate that he’s always in my way. I hate that he ruins everything.” He was breathing hard, hands balled into fists; he closed his eyes and forced himself to stop talking.

“I do apologize, sir,” 3PO said, sounding distressed. He attempted to lever himself up from the bed, but he only managed to nearly fall flat.

Armitage huffed out a sigh and grabbed 3PO by the arms, hauling him up. “You’re just doing your job,” he said. “Thank you. That’s enough.”

If a droid could look relieved, 3PO certainly did as he shuffled out of Armitage’s room.

~

They left Armitage alone for the rest of the day; his only visitor was R2-D2, who grumbled at him but did not engage in conversation as he dropped off Armitage’s lunch and dinner trays. Armitage wondered what the rebels thought of his outburst; perhaps 3PO had recorded the entire interview and Organa and Dameron and the other leaders were meticulously analyzing it. He wouldn’t blame them; it was what he’d do.

Of course, he wouldn’t offer a counselor to a prisoner; he’d likely be examining footage of an interrogation.

Armitage grimaced. It was hard to discount the rebels’ way of doing things when it benefited him personally. So far the worst he’d endured here was the discomfort of Rey rooting around as carefully as possible in his head. This soft-heartedness _should_ be the rebels’ undoing; it should lead to their complete destruction. Yet somehow they survived, escaping complete annihilation and spreading their poisonous ideals throughout the galaxy.

Ideals of...not summarily executing those who disagreed with them.

Again, it was ludicrous. Weak. Why did they still exist?

He remembered, suddenly, the hatred in Rose Tico’s eyes as she’d glared up at him in the hangar bay of the _Supremacy_ , the way he’d taunted her, the way she’d actually _bitten_ him in response. And then, mere weeks later, he’d walked up to her table in the rebel mess hall without a care in the world, introduced himself like he had a right to be there...and she’d done nothing. The traitor had been there too. Pilots who’d flown against the First Order in battle. None of them had done a thing.

Armitage was certain this was not the result of discipline; the rebels were the most undisciplined lot he’d encountered in his life. Good training hadn’t kept Armitage’s enemies from arranging a deadly accident and claiming self-defense.

Loyalty, perhaps, to the one who’d given the order, Leia Organa. Also, possibly, faith. The belief that there was a chance Organa was right, and that Armitage could change.

Despite the fact that every last cell in their bodies was probably screaming against it, they’d followed Organa’s orders and let him live. They hadn’t even roughed him up.

Organa had their loyalty without relying on reconditioning.

He thought of Ematt again, of how deeply he believed in the rebels’ cause. Perhaps they were all that fervent.

Did his stormtroopers have even a fraction of their fire?

They should. They should be fiercely loyal to him, as the rebels were to Organa. All his men should. He was the face of the Order; everyone was meant to love and obey him. But did they?

The younger ones had been conditioned, and aside from the traitor they all obeyed without question. But the older officers didn’t respect him, thought his position was the result of nepotism rather than ability. The idea was absurd; Brendol Hux hadn’t given Armitage a single thing in his life. But it was an easy enough thing to assume. And no matter how passionate Armitage was about the Order’s mission to unite and pacify the galaxy, no matter how many brilliant speeches he gave or weapons he engineered, they were not swayed. Armitage wasn’t even sure they believed in the Order so much as they were waiting for things to settle so they could reestablish the parts of the Empire they liked, things that added to their personal wealth, power, and prestige.

Organa, despite the damage that had been done to her reputation when the galaxy learned she was the daughter of Darth Vader, enjoyed a cult of personality Armitage could not match. It would be easy to assume that it was due to their difference in comportment: Organa was strong but more subtle. When she spoke it wasn’t with even half the fervor Armitage would use, yet she commanded attention and respect. That could very well be the difference, the thing that fostered loyalty to Organa, but he could not discount the possibility that the content of the message was part of it. Ematt, for example, had joined the Rebellion around the same time as Organa; he was loyal to its ideals first and foremost. Perhaps others were the same, and they followed Organa because they believed she was best-suited to make those ideals reality.

What did Armitage’s stormtroopers and officers believe?

The lunch and dinner trays R2 had brought still sat untouched on the table when Armitage curled under the covers to sleep.

~

Dameron came to visit early the next morning, bringing Armitage’s breakfast tray personally. “You’re not eating,” he noted, nudging the tray onto the table alongside yesterday’s meals and taking a seat in the desk chair.

Armitage didn’t have a response to this stating of the obvious, so he simply shrugged from his cross-legged position at the center of the bed.

“I’m not leaving until you eat your breakfast,” Dameron said.

“Well then,” Armitage said dryly, “I’ve found a way to keep you here, haven’t I?”

Dameron raised an eyebrow, and Armitage felt himself flushing a bit. He could almost swear Dameron’s cheeks darkened too, but the pilot maintained his composure, lips twitching into a grin.

Then Dameron said, “Am I going to have to hold you down and force-feed you?” and Armitage’s flush went from mild to burning hot.

“What?” he screeched, heart pounding.

An odd look passed over Dameron’s face. Then he looked embarrassed. Armitage would normally try for a rejoinder, press his advantage, but something was off about Dameron’s reaction. “No,” Dameron said finally, raising his hands in what seemed to be a pacifying gesture, though Armitage was hardly upset. He’d been surprised, was all. “No,” Dameron said again. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t do that.”

_Oh_. Armitage pressed his lips together. Dameron’s thoughts had gone in an entirely different—and, frankly, unwelcome—direction. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—” Armitage tried to explain, then stopped, frowning. Should he have had the reaction Dameron expected? Why hadn’t he? “You’re,” he tried again, but he didn’t know what came next.

“Okay,” Dameron said, hands still raised, not moving from the chair. “It’s okay.”

The look on Dameron’s face was insufferable, and Armitage wanted it gone. “I’m not having another episode,” he huffed.

“Okay,” Dameron said again, in the same calm, even, emotionless voice.

“ _Stop_ that.”

“Stop what?”

“Trying to placate me. Treating me like...like you think you can break me.” That wasn’t quite right. Armitage wasn’t sure what _was_ right. “We were having a perfectly ordinary conversation,” he plowed on.

“I threatened you physically—”

Armitage cut him off. “I’m not afraid of you, Dameron.”

Dameron gazed at him for a moment. “You’re not?” he asked quietly, finally lowering his hands.

“I’m not.” Armitage folded his arms, then unfolded them immediately. “Here. I’ll prove it,” he said, swallowing against a sudden nervous sort of fluttering in his chest. “Show me how you’d hold me down.”

Dameron blinked. “You’re not serious.”

“I am,” Armitage insisted. “Go on, then.” He offered Dameron a smirk. “I won’t eat anything otherwise.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Dameron’s face. _That_ was better. He glanced over at Armitage’s breakfast tray, then back to where Armitage sat on the bed. “You’re being awfully difficult,” he said.

“ _You’re_ the one being difficult,” Armitage countered. “I’ve communicated my requirements. All you have to do is go along with them.” His heart thudded in his chest.

Dameron huffed out a laugh. “Fine,” he said, rising from the chair and leaning over the bed. “If I really had to hold you down…” His rich brown eyes were very close, a thick curl of black hair falling over the right one, and though there was amusement there, it was still underpinned with worry. “I’d have to straddle you, I think.”

“Mmm hmm,” Armitage agreed.

“Push you down on the bed.”

“Yes.”

“Grab your wrists?”

Armitage sighed. “Will you just _do_ it?”

And suddenly he was on his back, the air knocked out of his lungs as Poe Dameron climbed over him, settled atop his hips, and pinned his wrists to the bed over his head. Armitage panted for breath, his heart drumming a fierce staccato. He was trapped beneath the warm weight of Dameron’s wiry frame, and Dameron was gazing down at him, and now Dameron was biting his lower lip, and Armitage _may_ have miscalculated.

“You okay?” Dameron asked softly.

“Fine,” Armitage tried to say, but it came out in a whisper.

“Will you be good and eat your breakfast now?”

A thrill shot up Armitage’s spine at the word _good_ , and he felt his face flushing. He squirmed a bit and was gratified to see Dameron blush and look away. “No,” Armitage said boldly. “You’ll have to hold me down and feed me, like you said.”

Dameron visibly swallowed. “What are you doing to me?” he murmured, and Armitage’s pulse thundered in his ears. He was hot all over; his skin was on fire. Dameron licked his lips and Armitage felt his own cock twitch where it lay alongside Dameron’s thigh. As if in response, Dameron shifted his hips.

Armitage groaned helplessly at the friction, lightheaded and still panting. He tried to buck up against Dameron but found himself quite thoroughly pinned in place. He groaned again, eyes fluttering closed; he opened them again to gaze up at Dameron’s ridiculously handsome face.

Dameron’s eyes were dark and hungry, and his lips were parted; he was panting too. Armitage squirmed again, testing Dameron’s grip on his wrists. “You’re strong,” he said, stupidly.

Dameron drew a long breath that shuddered a little, then shook his head. “Are you all right?” he asked.

That wasn’t what Armitage wanted him to say. “Stop asking me that,” he complained.

“No.” Dameron gave Armitage a smile that looked half fond, half long-suffering. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You _won’t_ ,” Armitage insisted. His voice sounded almost pleading, and he hated it. If Dameron would just—

But Dameron shook his head again. “I have to make sure.”

It was too easy to make the comparison. The contrast was so stark. But Armitage fought it, struggled to bury thoughts of Ren—his careless touch, his easy violence. Ren would never ask; he would simply take.

Armitage felt himself going cold, enough that a shudder ran through him. He looked away, clenching his fists and trying to control his breathing.

“Are you okay?” Dameron was saying, but his voice sounded far away. “Do you want me to let you up?” Armitage was too focused on not thinking about Ren to reply. “I’m letting you up,” said Dameron’s distant voice, and then the warm pressure lifted away from his wrists and hips.

“No,” Armitage said, his voice breaking pathetically on that single word. He grasped at Dameron— _weak weak weak_ —and managed to catch a handful of his shirt. Ren would laugh if he saw this. Father would—

Armitage pulled until Dameron’s weight returned, pressed against his side this time; Dameron stretched out alongside him on the bed, and Armitage rolled forward and hid his face in Dameron’s shirt. “Sorry,” Armitage said miserably, the cold settling in the pit of his stomach. He’d ruined it. Just like he’d ruined everything else. “I’m sorry.”

Dameron’s arm came up around his waist, his hand rubbing circles at the center of Armitage’s back. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. That was ridiculous, but Armitage couldn’t think of how to explain. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Dameron said again. “It’s okay.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armitage still isn't ready to talk, and doesn't believe he ever will be. But upon learning what the rebels are planning, he's ready to do something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to ktula and deadsy for looking this one over!

Dameron stayed, inexplicably, until Armitage told him to go. He never communicated the irritation he was surely feeling, not even in a quiet sigh, and he also never remarked that there was somewhere he needed to be. All he did was rub Armitage’s back and occasionally murmur nonsense that was strangely soothing. Enough time passed that Armitage became concerned Dameron was shirking his responsibilities, and finally he was able to pull back and let go of his shirt.

After Dameron left, Armitage sat at the desk and contemplated his grim reality. This was the third day since Ren’s message, which meant the rebels had a week and a half to return Armitage to the First Order before Ren turned the full firepower of the fleet against every planet that meant something to Organa.

They’d asked him what he wanted to do, and it was possible they would actually consider his input. They were ridiculous, the lot of them. Never mind that Armitage didn’t know what his input would even be.

He should want to go back. That he didn’t was just more weakness he needed to burn out of himself. But even if he wasn’t weak, even if he was as eager to return to the Order as he should be, Organa had indicated that that wasn’t an option. Was she waiting for him to offer his services to the Rebellion? If he did not, would he be executed?

He went around and around on the question, not getting anywhere, until finally he decided he should probably eat. He cleared his breakfast tray in minutes, almost too focused on how hungry he suddenly found himself to notice the taste. Thankfully rations were equally bland hot or cold. After finishing breakfast he ate half of the previous night’s dinner as well.

Sitting became intolerable, so Armitage stood and let himself pace, clasping his hands behind his back and wishing for the comforting bulk of his greatcoat. If the rebels didn’t give in to Ren’s demands, how were they going to stop him from destroying all those planets? Did they think they could appease him? They couldn’t. And they couldn’t physically protect the planets, either. They had no fleet, and ordinary planetary defenses couldn’t stand up to the First Order’s weapons. Buried and reinforced bases like the one on Crait would survive, but the planets’ surfaces would be ruined.

It was such a waste. These planets were of no military importance. Ren would be destroying resources that could be used by the Order, sorely needed after the loss of the _Supremacy_.

Armitage chewed on his lower lip, then turned toward the door. “If anybody’s listening,” he said, “I want to talk to General Organa.”

~

“This is unexpected,” Leia Organa said, “coming from the man who designed Starkiller Base.” She’d taken a seat this time, in Armitage’s desk chair.

Armitage was tired of sitting; he was leaning back against the wall across from her, arms crossed. “The purpose of having a planet-killer is, ultimately, to not have to use it,” he said. “It’s supposed to be a deterrent.”

Organa smiled mirthlessly. “And yet, somehow, they always end up getting used.”

Armitage huffed. “The point is, I don’t believe in destroying planets needlessly. I told your General Ematt so, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Organa allowed. “You also gave the order to destroy not one, but five planets. If you truly meant Starkiller Base to be a deterrent, there are other things you could have done.”

A sour feeling settled in Armitage’s stomach. Destroying the Republic was a fleeting moment of triumph that now felt absolutely meaningless. His purpose had been to stop the Resistance from reaching Skywalker, but instead he’d revealed Starkiller Base’s existence and location and given the Resistance motivation to destroy it. He’d hoped to win Snoke’s approval (and Ren’s envy), but instead he’d caused the First Order a massive setback. It had been an egregious waste of resources.

“I am...reconsidering that decision,” Armitage said, lip twitching.

“With a single word, you killed billions of people. _Billions_. Now you’re saying it might have been a mistake, which means all those people died for nothing. And you still believe one person should have that power?”

Armitage fought down a scowl. “None of this is the point,” he said. “The point is that I want to stop Ren from wasting those resour—er, _planets_. You presumably want to save them as well. Wouldn’t it be advisable to work together?”

“I suppose I should be grateful you aren’t trying to convince me that you suddenly have an appreciation for lives other than your own,” Organa said thinly.

He’d miscalculated again. Just like Ematt, she’d been testing him, and he’d failed. He would probably always fail. His interest in Dameron’s well-being had meant something to them, but not enough to outweigh the other opinions he’d expressed. Armitage pushed off the wall, jaw clenching.

“My motivations may not align with yours,” he said through his teeth, “but the ultimate goal is the same.”

“That may be,” Organa said, “but I have no reason to trust you.”

Armitage drew a long breath, clasping his hands behind his back. “I can give you a very valuable piece of information about Kylo Ren.”

Organa’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you don’t think you can manipulate me this way,” she said.

“No. I don’t.” Armitage closed his eyes briefly, then forced himself to meet her gaze. “There’s a tracker in his belt. He doesn’t know. I put it there. With the right equipment, I can find him wherever he is.”

Organa stared at Armitage for a moment. “And you’ll share the tracking parameters with us,” she said, so flatly it almost wasn’t a question.

“I will,” Armitage said. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, a horrible thrill stuttered in electric fits down his spine. His body went cold, and bile rose up in his throat. This was treason. He was a traitor to the First Order.

But Ren wasn’t the legitimate leader of the First Order, was he?

Armitage focused on his heartbeat, trying to slow it through force of will.

Organa rose from the chair, looking contemplative. “All right, Armitage. You’ll share how to track Kylo Ren, we’ll confirm your information, and then we’ll decide where to go from there.”

~

A full day passed before Armitage heard anything more. He was, of course, not allowed to leave his room. No one visited other than R2-D2 with his food trays and C-3PO, who came by for an hour to ask Armitage questions about his mental state. Armitage had to give the droid credit for being willing to try again, but this time he was more guarded—it wouldn’t do to give the rebels even more ammunition against him. What they knew, and thought they knew, about him was bad enough.

That evening, Dameron stopped by just as Armitage finished picking at his tasteless rations. After such an interminable day, Armitage was glad to see him. “Come in,” he said, perhaps more eagerly than he should have. “Have a seat.” As he’d been sitting in the chair before he got up to answer the door, he waved Dameron toward the bed.

Dameron glanced at the bed, looked back to Armitage, and gave him a grin that made his toes curl. “At least buy a guy dinner first,” he said.

Blood rushed to Armitage’s face. “You’re really quite intolerable,” he said with a huff.

“Intolerable, huh?” Dameron winked at him as he turned to move toward the bed.

Armitage followed him, face still hot. He abandoned the chair, flouncing right past it and dropping down onto the bed beside Dameron. He could swear Dameron’s eyes _twinkled_ as he shifted a bit to face him.

“Intolerable,” Dameron said again. “I dunno, you seem to tolerate me just fine.” He leaned a bit closer, gazing up at Armitage through his eyelashes, obviously aware of exactly what he was doing. “In fact,” he concluded, mouth curving into a smug smile, “I think you _like_ tolerating me.”

Armitage rolled his eyes and crossed his arms to cover the fact that he was squirming a little. “You’re not... _entirely_ unpleasant,” he allowed.

“Flatterer.” Dameron tipped his head back and his lips were _right there_ , pale pink and so beautifully defined, like they’d been sculpted. Armitage suddenly wanted nothing more than to bend down and taste them. But before he could give in to what was probably a foolish temptation, he was suddenly remembering two days ago—the way he’d lain curled up against Dameron, crying like a weakling into the man’s shirt.

Armitage frowned and turned his face away.

After a moment, “So, uh, hey,” Dameron said tentatively, his hand coming up to Armitage’s shoulder. “Did you want to talk about...stuff?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Armitage said, still not looking at him. “Unless you’ve confirmed my information, and you want to discuss strategy.”

“Um. No,” Dameron said. “Still working on that. No, I meant—you know what I meant.”

Armitage’s frown deepened, but he said nothing.

“Uh. I’m not a doctor or anything, but I was thinking. The way you lost your memory. Er.” Dameron removed his hand from Armitage’s shoulder and used it to scratch at the back of his own head, the action tossing a few curls against his cheek. “Maybe you were trying to repress stuff?”

“There’s no use in thinking about it,” Armitage said firmly. “It’s done.” He blinked, realizing he was now on his feet; when had he risen from the bed?

“You were trying to protect yourself,” Dameron said, and he stood up too. “Nothing wrong with that. But it doesn’t work that way. I told you, after what happened to me, I had to work through it. I’m still working through it. It takes time. But you can’t just...ignore it until it goes away. Because it won’t go away.”

Armitage pressed his palms into his eye sockets, hard. He felt his lip tremble, of all things. It was ridiculous and horrible.

“If you don’t want to talk to me or 3PO, we can find you someone else,” Dameron said, touching Armitage’s elbow hesitantly.

“By all means, let’s share this story with the entire rebellion. Although—you’ve already done that, haven’t you?” Armitage dropped his hands away from his eyes and scowled at Dameron. “Everyone has seen that first interview with 3PO, haven’t they?”

“We didn’t record that interview,” Dameron said. His voice was infuriatingly gentle. “3PO told our leadership a little about it. Nothing was shared with anyone else.”

Armitage stared at him. “You’re all insane.”

“We’re trying to be sensitive to your situation,” Dameron said, impatience creeping into his voice. It was the first time since all this had begun that Armitage could remember Dameron sounding annoyed. It was rather refreshing.

“I’m your prisoner,” Armitage reminded him.

“You’re still a _person_.”

Armitage laughed, shaking his head. “So naive—”

“ _Look_ ,” Dameron said, and his hands twitched at his sides like he wanted to do something with them but was fighting himself. “What happened to you was wrong. No one should have to go through that, no matter if they’re my closest friend or my bitterest enemy. We don’t do things like that here. We’re not gonna add to the damage.”

Armitage’s surprisingly decent mood evaporated in an instant. “You pity me,” he spat.

“What’s wrong with that?” Dameron shouted back. “Something horrible happened to you. The _decent_ thing to do is to feel bad about it!”

Armitage swayed on his feet a little. He clasped his hands behind his back, forcing himself into parade rest.

“Shit,” Dameron said, his voice suddenly soft. “I’m sorry. I messed up again. The yelling.”

The room swam in front of Armitage’s eyes; he closed them to settle himself. “It’s fine,” he said. It should be fine. He’d spent his entire life being yelled at. This was no different.

“Here, sit down.” Armitage felt Dameron’s hands come to gently rest at his shoulder and bicep, and he opened his eyes again as Dameron steered him back toward the bed. “I’m sorry,” Dameron repeated. “I shouldn’t have yelled.”

Armitage sat down. “I wanted you to,” he said.

“What?”

“I don’t like you tiptoeing around me.”

Dameron gave him a sad, awful smile. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Armitage took a long breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. “I’m apparently broken beyond repair. I doubt anything you do will make a difference.”

“Look, that’s the thing,” Dameron said, sitting down next to him again. “You’re not beyond repair. No one is.”

“Not even Kylo Ren?” Armitage asked pointedly.

Dameron winced. “I mean. First he would have to _want_ to change. But that’s what I’m trying to say. If you want to...you know, feel better? You can. But you can’t hide from it.”

Armitage was suddenly exhausted. “Fine,” he said. “I understand.”

“You look tired,” Dameron said. “I’m gonna let you sleep.”

“Good,” Armitage said dully. “Good night.”

Dameron rose and headed for the door. Armitage stretched out flat on the bed, glaring at the ceiling.

“Oh,” Dameron said. “I forgot. I came by to bring you something.” Armitage rolled his head to the side enough to see Dameron pulling some sort of rectangular object from the breast pocket of his flight suit. “I’ll just put it here for you.” Dameron moved forward, but only far enough to set the object on the desk. “Good night.”

Armitage didn’t want to look at whatever Dameron had left him. He didn’t know what it could possibly be—surely it wasn’t any sort of technology, as he was still a prisoner. Perhaps it was a ration bar. Perhaps Dameron thought he wasn’t eating enough. Well, Dameron could keep his concern and his ration bars. Armitage Hux didn’t need his pity.

He lay on his bed for two hours, trying and failing to fall asleep. Finally, with an angry grunt, he pushed himself up off the bed and stalked over to the desk.

The object did look like a ration bar, except it was packaged in some sort of gold-colored paper and labeled _Decadence_ in Aurebesh. Armitage frowned and unwrapped it.

It was a solid, segmented bar of a dark brown substance. Bits of it had flaked off into the creases in the label. Armitage peered at it for a moment, then pressed a finger to one of the flakes and brought it to his mouth.

Whatever it was, it was nothing like Armitage had ever tasted. It melted on his tongue, almost coating it, and he couldn’t place the flavor—it wasn’t salty, and he wouldn’t quite call it savory, but it was rich.

It was also delicious.

Armitage broke off one of the segments and put the whole thing into his mouth, sucking and nibbling at it, letting the taste cover his tongue. He’d never had anything this good in his entire life. When that piece was gone he broke off another one, then another. It wasn’t long before the entire thing—whatever it had been—was gone. He almost set to licking the flakes off the label, and then he remembered that he was a civilized person.

Wishing there were more of it, wishing he’d saved some, Armitage examined the label more closely and discovered an ingredients list in tiny text. The main ingredient was apparently _chocolate_ , and it was flavored with sugar and milk.

“Chocolate,” Armitage said aloud. He’d remember that. He folded the label carefully and slid it into the desk’s single drawer. Then he realized he was smiling, and he huffed in annoyance and crawled back into bed.

~

Armitage was left alone again the next day, and well into the day after that. It was late evening when Dameron appeared again; by that time, Armitage was desperate for information and ready to tear the door down with his bare hands.

“What is going on?” he demanded before Dameron had even made it through the hatchway.

Dameron raised his hands as if to ward Armitage off, but he was smiling. “Cool your thrusters, Red. It took us a little while to verify your information. But it’s legit; we have Kylo Ren’s exact location. At pretty much all times. I mean, this is huge.”

Armitage swallowed but held his head high. “Yes.”

“We can’t thank you enough for this,” Dameron said. “You’re taking a huge risk.” He sobered a bit, but he couldn’t quite seem to banish the elation from his face. Armitage could hardly fault him. It was rather a big win for the rebels, after all.

“Yes,” Armitage said, “I am. I hope you’ll put this intel to good use.”

“We plan to,” Dameron said. “In fact, I’ve gotta get back to the command meeting. I just wanted to give you the good news.”

Armitage perked up at the words _command meeting_. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, considering how to—

“Did you like the chocolate?” Dameron asked, derailing Armitage’s thoughts completely.

Armitage felt the tips of his ears going red. “I did,” he said, his voice coming out oddly quavery. “It was delicious.”

Dameron smiled so wide it made the room seem brighter. “Good! I’m glad.”

Armitage’s blood was practically singing in his veins. He wondered where Dameron had gotten the chocolate, whether it was a delicacy, if it was common in the Core Worlds or a rare treat. He wondered if it meant something that Dameron had given it to him.

“Well, I better—” Dameron began, turning toward the door, and Armitage remembered his other question.

“Could you—could you do something else for me?” he asked quickly. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, guilt churned in his stomach, for no reason he could fathom. He was making a reasonable request; there was nothing wrong with that.

“What do you need?” Dameron’s face was completely open, like Armitage could ask him for anything.

Armitage glanced away in embarrassment, also unfathomable. “Could you remind Organa that I can help in other ways, but not if I don’t have any information?” he said.

Dameron huffed out a small laugh. “You want to be involved in planning the mission?” he asked.

“I can help,” Armitage said again, feeling a bit miffed.

“I know you can,” Dameron said. “Sure. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

Armitage managed a smile at that. He nodded in thanks.

Dameron smiled back, patted Armitage’s arm, and headed off.

~

Early the next morning, Kaydel Connix and a squad of ground troops guided Armitage into the command center. The room was charged with energy and activity. General Organa was speaking with an admiral Armitage had learned was named U.O. Statura, part of the group of Dameron’s returned friends. Dameron and General Ematt worked at a console, paging through holographic star charts. Chewbacca, Rey, and Rose Tico were standing off to the side; Tico looked nervous, Rey appeared to be anticipating something, and Armitage couldn’t even begin to guess what the Wookiee was thinking. The droids R2-D2, C-3PO, and BB-8 were bumbling about like an unruly trio of nerfs.

FN-2187—Finn—was staring at Armitage, scowling, arms crossed.

Dameron looked up from the console, glancing at Ematt before moving away to come to Finn’s side. Finn rounded on him. “This guy,” Finn said, stabbing a finger in Armitage’s direction, “wanted me and Rose _executed._  He’s not gonna help us. He—”

“Your concern is more than understandable,” Organa interrupted, and at her raised voice the loud chatter in the room abruptly turned to murmuring. “I have invited Mr. Hux to join us on the merit of the information he has shared with us, which we have confirmed. This is not an unconditional invitation, and I encourage everyone to use caution in what is said here. That said, Mr. Hux’s insight into the First Order may prove invaluable for our next move.”

Dameron rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, giving Finn a pleading smile. Ematt looked unhappy but mollified. Finn shot Rey a look of exasperation across the room; she gave him a half-smile that appeared slightly embarrassed.

“Now that we’re all here,” Organa went on, “let’s get started. You’ve all been briefed on the tracker Mr. Hux hid in Kylo Ren’s belt. There are any number of ways we can exploit this information. I’m interested in your recommendations.”

The room was quiet for a moment. Armitage spoke into the uncomfortable silence. “I presume you don’t have the resources for a full-scale assault against Ren’s flagship. Even if you did, there’s no guarantee with something so imprecise. A surgical strike is your best option. But it has to be something he doesn’t see coming. Something beneath his notice. His awareness is heightened by the Force; he can sense direct attacks. It has to be something that can get close before he notices, and then overwhelm him somehow. Even catching him sleeping isn’t a guarantee; the Force might wake him up.” That last was spoken somewhat bitterly. All of this would have been avoided if Armitage could only have taken that shot in the throne room. “The best choice would be Rey,” Armitage pushed on, turning to her. “You’re his only match in power. You may be the only one who can kill him.”

Rey bit her lip and glanced at Organa. Organa’s lips compressed into a thin line. “We will do what we need to do,” Organa said. “But we have reason to believe Kylo Ren’s life was spared during the battle with the _Supremacy_ for a greater purpose. Capturing him may be preferable to killing him.”

Armitage frowned. He glanced at Dameron and was pleased to find him frowning too. “What possible reason could there be?” Armitage said over the murmuring that had arisen following Organa’s statement. “Ren has demonstrated again and again the danger he poses to the galaxy. Is this sentiment?”

The look on Organa’s face could have melted durasteel. Armitage’s pride at having finally elicited a reaction from her couldn’t quite overcome the discomfort he felt under her gaze. “Accusations of favoring enemies of the Republic due to familial ties are not new to me,” Organa said in a low voice, “but they weren’t true then and they’re not true now. Everything I do is for the good of the people of the galaxy.”

“We know, General,” Ematt put in, inclining his head. “No one has done more for the galaxy than you.”

“Then I’m sure you won’t mind sharing the reasoning,” Armitage pressed, despite the fact that Organa looked ready to murder him with her bare hands.

“It’s my reasoning,” Rey blurted. Organa sighed. “I’ve only told Leia this so far,” Rey went on, turning to face the entire room. “When I escaped after our battle in the throne room—I didn’t lose Kylo. He was just lying there, unconscious. I could have—” She looked down, then back up, her face filled with resolve. “I could have done it then. I could have killed him. But it wasn’t the right time.”

More murmuring broke out across the room. Armitage shouted over it. “Wasn’t the right—” He shook his head, feeling himself going cold. “When _will_ be the right time? After he’s destroyed half the galaxy?”

“I don’t know,” Rey said. “I just...felt it.”

So Rey had fallen for Ren’s game after all. Or, worse, the blasted Force had protected Ren _again_.

If the Force wanted Kylo Ren alive, to the detriment of everyone else—if the Force wanted Armitage beaten and broken—then the Force itself, not just Kylo Ren, was his enemy. The Force, and any who aligned with it.

Dameron stepped to his side, leaning up toward his ear. “You okay?” the pilot asked in a low voice.

Armitage shook his head, but it wasn’t a denial. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’m fine.”

This was unacceptable. Ren didn’t deserve to live. Armitage hadn’t given up his greatest bargaining chip for this.

He’d have to take matters into his own hands.

“Use me as bait,” Armitage said. “I’m what he wants. Goad him into coming to retrieve me himself, and then capture him when he does.”

“No way,” Dameron breathed beside him.

Armitage waved the comment off. “We’re running out of time,” he said. “It’s been a week since Ren’s message. We need to move.”

If Armitage could be there—and if Ren was alone—that would be his chance. He could do what needed to be done.

Maybe it was better this way. It was certainly fitting that Armitage be the one to put Ren down.

His hands started to shake. To still them, he concentrated on scraping his fingernails into his palms, the action familiar and grounding.

He’d do it. He’d kill Ren. And after that, he’d escape the rebels, return to the Order, and take his rightful place at its head.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rebels' plan to capture Kylo Ren comes together...as does Armitage's plan to kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end notes for a chapter-specific content warning.

_“Your hands are so small.”_

_Kylo had taken Armitage by the wrist, splayed the fingers of their hands together. Armitage’s fingertips barely made it to Kylo’s third knuckles._

_“How dare you,” Armitage replied, smiling. “My hands are perfectly normal in size. It’s you who’s excessively large. Everywhere; it’s not just those massive hands of yours.”_

_Kylo caught Armitage’s wrist again, rolled him onto his back and pinned his wrist to the bed, settled his body between Armitage’s legs. “Is that a complaint, General?” Kylo rolled his hips and Armitage groaned._

_“I can handle you,” Armitage informed him, breathless. Kylo trapped his other wrist, began rutting in earnest. “I can take whatever you can give.”_

_Kylo buried his face in Armitage’s neck, sucked hard, bit down. “I know,” he growled, his low voice and hot breath making Armitage shiver. “That’s what I love about you.”_

Armitage awoke covered in sweat, his bedclothes completely drenched. It took him a moment to orient himself. He was in the narrow cot in his assigned quarters at the rebel base; it was morning; and the first of many strategy meetings was due to take place in a matter of hours. It wasn’t the time for nonsense. It was time to get to work.

He peeled himself out of the sheets and his clothes, shuddering with sudden cold, and staggered to the row of hooks where his handful of jumpsuits were hung. Pulling one on while sticky with sweat was, frankly, disgusting, but he didn’t have his own bathing facilities here in this primitive, filthy rebel burrow.

“I need to use the sonic,” he said into the door comm. Despite the fact that Armitage was ostensibly helping the rebels, he still wasn’t allowed outside his room without an escort. They weren’t completely stupid, it seemed.

Whoever was in the control room—it sounded like Pamich Nerro, the dispatcher—answered with only, “Acknowledged.”

“Don’t send Dameron,” Armitage added, picking at the fabric of his jumpsuit and attempting to hold it away from his body.

They sent Finn, who arrived with a frown on his face and a blaster holstered prominently on his thigh. “Let’s get this over with,” the deserter said. “Make sure you have everything you need, because we’re only making one trip.”

Armitage was silent as the former stormtrooper guided him through the maze of hallways to the communal bank of refreshers. Finn was silent too, and efficient, his marching footfalls eerily familiar. He really had been one of the best, before whatever had broken his programming.

Finn waited outside while Armitage entered one of the stalls. This situation was familiar, too; Armitage had been about to take a sonic when he’d heard Finn warning Dameron away, back before his memories returned. That was when he’d learned he commanded a fleet. And...he’d dreamed of Starkiller that night, Armitage realized.

How considerate of his subconscious to keep reminding him of lost things.

The trip back to his room was just as silent as the trip to the ’freshers had been, but when they reached the door Finn rounded on him. “I don’t trust you,” he said.

“That’s wise,” Armitage said.

Finn frowned. “I’ll be watching you, and making sure you don’t end up screwing us over. Remember, I know things about the First Order too.”

Armitage gave him a small smile. “Trust a traitor to see a traitor in everyone else,” he said.

“You’d betray us in a heartbeat,” Finn shot back. “But I find it hard to believe you’d betray the Order. You _are_ the Order.”

Armitage shouldn’t rise to the bait. He should dismiss Finn and go back into his room. “Your friend Rey trusts me,” he said instead.

“Look,” Finn said, his hand drifting to his blaster, “I love Rey, but she never met you before this. Everything you’ve done is theoretical to her. She didn’t see any of it. I did, though, and so did Rose, and Poe. Most of the people here did. We know who you are, _General Hux_.”

Finn was right, of course. There was no way for Armitage to argue the point. “I’m going to help you anyway,” he said. Then he added, “Thank you for the escort.” Armitage hardly felt like thanking Finn, but the perplexed look it brought to the man’s face made it worth it.

“You’re welcome,” Finn said belatedly, voice sullen, as the door slid shut between them.

~

Containing Kylo Ren was a problem Armitage had never had to consider before. He’d thought it impossible, that only death could stop him. So when the question came up during that morning’s strategy meeting, Armitage had no input, and was frankly surprised that Organa did.

“The Empire was very thorough in destroying the records of the old Jedi,” Organa said. “They left us with very little practical information. Fortunately, I happen to have a reliable source.” A few of the people gathered around the circular holoconsole exchanged meaningful looks, but the reference was lost on Armitage. He crossed his arms sourly. “Force-users, Jedi and Sith and whatever else, are not all-powerful,” Organa continued. “They can be defeated, and they can be imprisoned.”

“But _how_?” Armitage asked impatiently. Several heads turned in his direction, and he felt the tips of his ears go hot.

Organa raised an eyebrow at him. “Ray shields,” she said. “A Force-user’s power cannot extend beyond them. And as everyone knows, no organic can pass through a ray shield without being killed by electric shock. It’s just as true for Force-users as it is for anyone else.”

It was so simple, yet Armitage had never heard it before. It couldn’t possibly be true. Surely he would have known.

But then again, what would Snoke or Ren have had to gain from telling Armitage how to imprison them? Armitage chewed on his lips, eyebrows coming together. If this _was_ true, it was yet another thing Ren had kept from him.

“The only concern I have,” Organa said, “is that Kylo Ren’s power exceeds any that is known. Captain Dameron witnessed him stopping a blaster bolt in midair. It’s not unthinkable that he might be able to affect ray shields in some way.”

The room swam a bit in front of Armitage’s eyes. Of course Ren would be the exception to any reasonable laws of the universe. He reached blindly out and braced himself against the console, blinking to clear his vision.

“We’ll have to do a test,” Organa said. “Rey, are you willing?”

“Yes,” Rey said without hesitation.

“I have to be there,” Armitage said, a bit too loudly. “I have to see.”

“There’s no problem with that, right?” Dameron asked. He was standing on the opposite side of the round console from Armitage. Armitage glanced at him. If Dameron was offended about being asked not to come this morning, he hadn’t shown it, except perhaps by choosing to stand so far away.

“Sure, if he’s in binders,” Finn replied.

“Come on, now,” Dameron started to say, but Armitage cut him off.

“That’s fine.” Armitage wasn’t going to act until they’d lured Ren in, and the rebels weren’t going to hurt him while they still needed him. He didn’t need to have his hands free for this test. What he did need was to see it with his own eyes.

“All right,” Organa said. “Ms. Tico, could you see about setting up a ray shield containment field in the training area? We’ll reconvene there in an hour.”

Rose Tico. Armitage caught her eye unintentionally just as she was saying, “Yes, ma’am.” She scowled at him and looked away.

She was from Hays Minor, Armitage remembered. He wasn’t sure when she’d fled to join the Resistance, and so he didn’t know if she’d been on-planet when he had visited with his father, years ago. She had reason enough to hate him, though, regardless of whether or not she’d been there when Brendol had used a series of public executions to put down the miners’ revolt.

_They deserve what they get_ , Brendol had told Armitage. _They need us to teach them_. The whole affair had been a glorious display of absolute power. Armitage had been certain they would learn after that, that they would fall into line.

Except they hadn’t.

Armitage thought of when he’d recognized Tico’s Otomok medallion in the hangar bay of the _Supremacy_. She’d gazed up at him with absolute hatred in her eyes, and all he’d felt was an arrogant sort of pity. She must be defective, he’d thought, for the training not to take. He’d taunted her, spoken to her as though she could not understand him.

But here in the Resistance-cum-Rebellion, Tico was the lead technician. Here, Leia Organa trusted her to design technology meant to contain a powerful Force-user. Here, Tico had determined how to evade hyperspace tracking and designed bafflers to hide Resistance transports from First Order sensors. Simply put, Tico had talents Armitage had not recognized. That no one had, until she’d defected.

Armitage’s throat went dry. Perhaps there were others like her in the Otomok system. Perhaps the continual uprisings weren’t evidence that the miners needed to be taught discipline, but that they had other, underutilized talents. That they—

Dameron’s voice cut through Armitage’s alarming thoughts. At some point during the commotion of the meeting dispersing, he’d stepped to Armitage’s side. “Want to get some breakfast?” he asked.

Armitage turned to him, grateful for the distraction. “I’d like that.”

~

“So,” Dameron said from across the table, poking at his bowl of warm cereal, “‘don’t send Dameron,’ huh?”

Armitage felt his head ducking without his permission. He forced his chin back up. “I wasn’t...looking my best,” he said.

Dameron’s face split in a grin. “So you want to look your best for me?”

“I…” Armitage was going hot again. “That isn’t—fuck off, Dameron. You’re a literal poster boy.”

“So are you,” Dameron reminded him with a flourishing point of his spoon. “The face of the First Order. I may or may not have a small collection of propaganda materials.” Armitage gaped at him, startled. “For research, of course,” Dameron added, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

Armitage’s neck was very hot now; it took great effort not to loosen his collar. He busied himself with eating his own porridge-like rations.

“You don’t have to worry about trying to impress me, Red,” Dameron went on, tone going more serious. “You always look pretty.” He paused. “Is ‘pretty’ an okay word?”

Armitage couldn’t look at him; he stared daggers into his bowl, face aflame. “It’s...acceptable,” he managed. “But only in the sense that you are. Pretty.”

Dameron laid his hand on Armitage’s forearm. Armitage stared at it, heart pounding. Their hands were very similar in size, he noted vaguely. Dameron’s fingers might be a bit thicker, but if so not by much. Dameron squeezed his forearm lightly, and Armitage finally looked up, swallowing.

“So we’re both pretty, then,” Dameron said, in a quieter voice than he’d been using.

“I suppose so,” Armitage managed.

“We probably look really good together.”

Armitage rallied. He would not be defeated here. He straightened his shoulders, leaned forward, and gazed intently into Dameron’s eyes. “If we joined forces,” he said, “no one in the galaxy would be able to resist us.”

But Dameron only smiled, soft and inviting and without a hint of jest, leaving Armitage feeling flat-footed. “We should get on that,” Dameron said.

~

Not only was Armitage placed in binders, but he was surrounded by a phalanx of rebel army soldiers for the ray shield demonstration. It was a ridiculous amount of overkill, but he supposed he should be flattered. He wondered how much the rebels actually knew about him, and how much they believed he’d done personally.

Finn had joined Tico in overseeing the test; the two of them stood at a control panel together, while Rey stood on an X that had been taped to the floor. The observers were all arranged along the facing wall, with Organa front and center and Armitage and his entourage at the end of the line to her left. “You ready?” Finn asked, and Rey nodded.

“Don’t move,” Tico said, and Rey grinned at her. “I know, I said that already,” Tico added, making a face.

“It’s good to be cautious,” Rey said, still smiling. “I promise, I won’t move.”

“Okay,” Tico said, letting out a long breath. “Here we go.” She tapped a few buttons, then pulled a lever. An energy shield sprang up around Rey, completely surrounding her with a shimmering electric dome. She was still visible inside the coalescing shield, but it very obviously formed a barrier.

“For the first test,” Finn said to Rey, “we’ll confirm that you can’t use the Force on anything outside the shield. Uh…” He glanced around, then hastily strode to the wall of training equipment and retrieved a jump rope. “Here you go, Rey,” he continued, hurrying back to the center of the room and placing the rope on the floor in front of the ray shield. “Try to make it float.”

Rey held out her hand toward the coiled rope, her face pinched in concentration. Nothing happened. After a long moment, she huffed out a breath. “I can’t,” she said.

“This test needs a control,” Armitage called from the sidelines. “Show us you can move it without the shield there.”

Finn scoffed. “She can move way more than that.”

But Rey shook her head. “Armitage has a point. Let’s do that real quick.” Tico disabled the ray shield, and the jump rope shot up from the floor like a snake that had been waiting to strike. It uncoiled, then formed shapes in the air: a triangle, a square, a circle. Finally Rey spun her hand in a circle and the rope coiled again, more loosely this time. Then it floated across the room and draped itself around Armitage’s neck. “How’s that?” Rey asked.

Armitage was unable to contain a sneer at being used as a prop. “Point proven,” he conceded sullenly.

Dameron jogged over and retrieved the jump rope, lifting it gently over Armitage’s head. “You’re cute when you’re disgruntled,” he said quietly, close to Armitage’s ear.

“Arse,” Armitage muttered.

Dameron grinned and jogged away to the jump rope’s original location, setting it back down again. “Finn? What’s next, buddy?”

“Now, I guess Rey tries to affect the ray shield itself. Maybe concentrate on making a hole in it that you can use to reach the jump rope?”

“All right,” Rey said. Tico reactivated the shield, and Rey extended her hand again, frowning. Armitage watched the ray shield; it continued to shimmer and coalesce, and he didn’t see any alterations to its naturally occurring patterns. Rey said nothing for several minutes, and the room was completely silent save for the low buzz of the shield. Finally Rey lowered her arm. “Nothing,” she said.

“Confirmed,” said Tico. “I picked up no abnormal readings from the shield.”

“So the shield must even shield _itself_ against the Force,” Finn said.

Organa stepped forward. “I’d like to do another test,” she said. “Rey, try to connect with my mind.”

“Okay,” Rey said immediately, making Armitage wonder if this was something the two of them did often. Both women closed their eyes.

Armitage watched them for a moment, but nothing much seemed to be happening. He scanned the rest of the room. Most of the others were intent on the test, but Finn was frowning in Armitage’s direction, and Tico was squeezing Finn’s arm. Dameron caught Armitage’s eye and gave him a wink.

“Nothing,” Organa said abruptly.

“No. Nothing,” Rey agreed.

“It looks like we’ll be able to contain him,” said Finn.

~

Over the next two days, Armitage worked to devise a plot that would make the rebels believe they were capturing Kylo Ren, but which would actually give Armitage the opportunity to kill him and escape. To avoid suspicion, he was careful to incorporate the information and ideas the rebels provided and not undermine any obviously sound strategies, even when they interfered with his true purpose.

The result was not ideal, nowhere near Armitage’s first choice...but it would be enough.

He dreamed of Ren both nights, of his big hands and wide mouth and sharp teeth. Both mornings he awoke in a sweat, and both mornings he refused to allow Dameron to see him until he’d made it to the sonic.

The day the plan was to be set into motion came quickly, yet not nearly soon enough.

“You don’t have to do this,” Dameron said. He’d said it so many times over the past three days that Armitage had stopped counting.

“I do,” Armitage told him. “I have to see this ended.”

They stood in the base’s cavernous hangar before a junky shuttle with no hyperdrive that had been modified to slot into the _Millennium Falcon_ ’s escape pod area, between its forward mandibles. The YT-1300 light freighter had been designed and shipped with a pod, but the _Falcon_ ’s had apparently been lost before Kylo Ren was even born.

“Surely there’s a way to do that without putting you in danger,” Dameron pressed.

Armitage pursed his lips. “I told you: different people have different—auras, in the Force. Ren knows mine. He’ll know if I’m not there.”

“He doesn’t—you shouldn’t have to—”

“I shouldn’t,” Armitage agreed. “But here we are.”

Dameron’s droid rolled up to let him know the technicians were finished fueling his X-wing. Dameron crouched low and scratched the droid’s ball body like it was a beloved pet. “Thanks, BB-8,” he said. “I’ll be right there.” He waited until the droid had rolled away again, and then he straightened and turned back to Armitage, looking ready to argue some more.

“It’ll work,” Armitage said preemptively.

“It’s too risky,” Dameron countered.

“I’m doing it,” Armitage said, and he turned toward the shuttle’s hatch.

“Just—wait,” and Dameron reached out and caught Armitage by the hand. Armitage turned back in surprise as Dameron wove their fingers together, squeezing tight. Their hands _were_ the same size; their fingers interlocked perfectly.

Armitage looked up from their linked hands. Dameron’s eyes were intent, his face serious. He reached up with his other hand, combing back through Armitage’s hair to the back of his head. Gently, he pulled Armitage’s face down toward his own.

“Ah,” Armitage said stupidly, and then their lips met.

Dameron was a nebula of contradictions, a cocky flyboy with a cautious manner, strong and wiry with gentle hands. He kissed the same way, eager but careful, something like desperation bleeding through the soft press of his mouth. Armitage opened for him, sucked at his upper lip, slid the fingers of his free hand back into that damnably perfect curly black hair. For a long moment nothing mattered—nothing, not the First Order, not Kylo Ren—except the slide of Dameron’s lips, the drag of his teeth, the tease of his tongue.

When they drew back, breath coming hard and hot between parted lips, Armitage leaned his forehead against Dameron’s and closed his eyes. “Be careful,” Dameron said, his voice a warm whisper against Armitage’s mouth.

“I will,” Armitage said. Of course he would.

“Just...come back,” Dameron said, finally letting his hand fall away from the back of Armitage’s head.

Armitage unlinked his fingers from Dameron’s and cycled open the shuttle’s hatch. “I’ll be fine,” he said.

~

Once the shuttle was docked to the _Millennium Falcon_ ’s forward mandibles, Rey and Chewbacca transported it to a remote corner of wild, uninhabited space. They released the docking clamps and let the shuttle float away, then jumped back into hyperspace to join Dameron and his squadron. If all had gone to plan, they were all waiting there, ready to jump in at a moment’s notice to retrieve the shuttle—and also ready to respond if anything went wrong.

As Armitage had informed the rebels and Finn had confirmed, under standard procedure, the First Order would send a TIE escort to drag the shuttle into the hangar bay of one of the fleet ships. The plan depended on that not happening. They had to get Ren to come himself and, ideally, alone. Their solution was a gambit that hinged on Ren’s emotional connection to Organa.

“You can have your general,” Organa had said in her holographic response to Ren. “He hasn’t turned out to be of much use to us. We’ll send him alone, but we want our shuttle back, even if it only has sub-light engines. Should the shuttle be taken aboard one of your ships, it will immediately self-destruct, and General Hux will die. The shuttle will remain armed to destruct until you have both left and your fleet is no longer in the system.” She’d offered a wry smile. “Surely that’s not too much to ask, Ben. At least leave your mother a shuttle.

“Oh,” Organa had added, “and it has to be you who retrieves him. Send anyone else, and we’ll blow the shuttle. Call it an old woman’s selfishness. I’d like to see my son, even if it’s just in a security holo.”

It was the only time Armitage had ever heard Organa use Ren’s birth name—indeed, the first time he’d heard anyone use it. It had left him feeling prickly, uncomfortable. He could only imagine how it would have made Ren feel. But given Ren’s response, the message appeared to have had its intended effect. Ren had agreed to Organa’s terms with a terse “Fine.”

And so Armitage found himself alone in the shuttle, sitting out in empty space in the middle of nowhere. At Dameron’s insistence, they’d left him unrestrained. He’d worried that that would be too unrealistic, that Ren would see through the plot instantly—but now, waiting for Ren to find him, pacing the shuttle and flexing his hands into fists, he was grateful not to be tied down.

As he stalked restlessly from the passenger area to the cabin and back again, Dameron’s words kept surfacing in his mind. _Come back_. If all went well, Armitage would be returning not to the Rebellion, but to the First Order. He’d never see Dameron or any of the rest of them again—except in his crosshairs.

And that was the way it should be. The First Order should wipe out the last remnants of the Rebellion and secure their hold on the galaxy, bringing desperately needed order to all beings. Without the distractions and obstructions of Kylo Ren and Snoke, without relying on the thrice-damned Force, it would be a simple matter. This was the Order’s chance for a definitive win, finally.

The gnawing feeling in the pit of Armitage’s stomach was surely nervous excitement. After all, he was finally going to set everything right.

Dameron’s voice crackled to life from the pilot’s console. “He has your coordinates now. It’s just a matter of time.”

Armitage strode back to the cockpit, but he didn’t answer; his heart was in his throat, threatening to gag him. He stood behind the empty pilot’s chair and stared unblinking at the control panel, watching the proximity sensor readout.

The first ship flickered into existence after just a few seconds. Armitage looked up, and there it was, fierce and predatory and familiar—the _Finalizer_. Then came two dreadnoughts, then more battlecruisers. In a matter of moments, the space beyond the shuttle’s viewport was beautifully blanketed with First Order warships.

His fleet was here.

Ren was here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter begins with a flashback of Armitage and Ren together. It is ostensibly a happy memory, but viewed through the lens of what we now know, it is unsettling.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All doesn't quite go according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes/warnings at the bottom.

Armitage allowed himself one long look at the beautiful formation of First Order ships, at the way their severe wedge shapes stabbed the way forward, ruthless and elegant. They were the very picture of power and grace and efficiency. It wouldn’t be long now, and they would all be his.

He turned and strode from the cockpit, cycling the hatchway shut as he went. It locked him out automatically, to support the story that he was a prisoner. He made his way to the back of the passenger area and took up position on a bench between two open wrist cuffs. Tico had modified the cuffs to make it hopefully appear to Ren as though Armitage had managed to disable them while he was alone.

It was a waiting game now. There was always the possibility that Ren would go back on the agreement and take the shuttle into a hangar. If he did that...Armitage didn’t think Organa was lying about the explosives. But Dameron and Rey would presumably jump in if it appeared the shuttle was going to be taken.

Whether they could stop it was another matter.

Armitage let out a huff. So much depended on Ren being predictably emotional. He could imagine Peavey’s reaction to such a plan. The quiet sigh. The insubordinate eye-rolling. If he wasn’t so damn good at his job, Armitage would have had Opan kill him years ago. He’d put up with Canady for similar reasons, although given that the _Fulminatrix_ captain hadn’t thought to scramble his own fighters—had he expected Armitage to micromanage him?—perhaps it was best that he was dead.

Ultimately, the former imperials were all trouble. There was a lot for Armitage to do once he was installed as Supreme Leader, that was certain.

He closed his eyes, tipped his head back against the seat.

The minutes stretched on like hours. Finally Armitage heard the shuttle’s proximity alert sounding from the cockpit, faint but unmistakable. Shortly thereafter came a shuddering _thunk_ as, presumably, a life support linkage tunnel secured itself to the emergency airlock on the shuttle’s roof. This was immediately confirmed by a series of clicks, then the rushing sound of a vacuum seal. After a tense moment of silence, the airlock irised open with a _swish_.

Armitage couldn’t help sucking in a breath as the enormous, black-swathed form of Kylo Ren dropped from the ceiling, landing in a crouch with a _clang_ that resounded throughout the shuttle.

Ren looked the same as always: tall and broad and menacing and beautiful. He still wore the cape he’d chosen after Starkiller, his standard tunic and trousers, his boots, and the belt with the tracker in it. His hair fell around his long, pale face, wild as his eyes.

Armitage warily watched as Ren rose to a standing position. “Supreme Leader,” he said in an even tone, getting up from the bench to face him.

“What are you _wearing_?” Ren asked without preamble. His red lips curled in distaste as his eyes swept over Armitage’s standard-issue rebellion jumpsuit. The look on his face was almost comical.

“My uniform was destroyed,” Armitage said, fighting to keep his voice level and face flat.

Ren huffed. “Take it off.”

“What?” Armitage said without meaning to. “Why?”

“You’re probably bugged, or you have a tracking device on you. Or both.” Ren’s mouth bent into a smirk. “Don’t you want to strip for me, General?”

Armitage repressed a shudder, his skin going hot. His eyes dropped to Ren’s hands, big and powerful at his sides, then rose back to his face. He swallowed and forced himself to comply. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I am? How I’ve fared these past two months?” he asked, reaching for the jumpsuit’s fastenings.

“Forgive me,” Ren said, sounding amused and utterly insincere. “How are you, Hux? Let me see how they’ve treated you.” He cut his hand swiftly downward through the air, and the front of Armitage’s jumpsuit ripped open from top to bottom.

Armitage couldn’t help flinching. He closed his eyes, balled his fists. He could feel himself starting to shake. Weak, as always. As Ren had made him, ever since Crait. But he couldn’t freeze. He had to pay attention. He had to _act_.

“Get it _off,_ ” Ren said loudly, startling Armitage’s eyes open. “I’m tired of wasting time here.” He took a heavy step forward—

—and that put him close enough to activate the trap.

A roiling cone of energy sprang up around Ren, completely surrounding him. Ren came to a stop, eyes widening. For a moment that stretched to an excruciating length, he was quiet. He turned in a slow circle, taking in the shimmering, buzzing ray shield that contained him on all sides.

Then, suddenly, he was screaming, whipping back around to face Armitage. In a flash he had drawn and ignited his lightsaber and thrust out his other hand toward Armitage’s throat.

Armitage staggered backward instinctively, hands going to his neck. But there was no pressure there, no invisible power squeezing the life out of him. Organa was proven right: Ren’s power was contained by the shield. Ren couldn’t hurt him.

Ren couldn’t hurt him.

Armitage took several stabilizing breaths and pulled the front of his jumpsuit back together with trembling hands.

“Traitor!” Ren spat, lowering his arm. He slashed at the shield with his saber; the blade bounced and sizzled uselessly against the wall of energy. “Traitor!”

Armitage didn’t have much time. The _Falcon_ would jump in to retrieve the shuttle soon; Ren had to be dead and Armitage had to be gone before that happened. He crossed quickly to the hidden panel that controlled the ray shield. Decreasing the size of the shield should do the trick; Ren would die of electric shock as soon as it touched him. But Armitage had to be careful that the shield collapsed uniformly, that there would be no weaknesses that Ren could exploit.

As he was reaching out to open the panel, the sizzling sound behind him abruptly changed from an electronic hiss to more of a low buzz. He looked back over his shoulder. Ren had stabbed his lightsaber into the floor and was laboriously cutting a hole.

Armitage was immediately grateful that the ray shield was a complete enclosure. Ren wouldn’t be able to get out that way; once he was through, he’d find that the shield was beneath him, too.

It was, however, rather mesmerizing to watch the staticky red blade saw slowly through the durasteel, throwing massive, blinding sparks. It was a futile attempt, but there was such raw power in it—

The shuttle suddenly lurched beneath Armitage’s feet. Surely Ren hadn’t hit some vital component? But no, now he could hear the hissing of the _Falcon_ ’s docking clamps as they cycled into place on either side of the shuttle.

Armitage had utterly wasted what little time he’d had. And now the rebels had them both.

“You might want to brace yourself, Supreme Leader,” Armitage told Ren tonelessly, falling into one of the passenger seats just as they made the jump to hyperspace.

~

Armitage spent the entirety of the jump debating just killing Ren anyway. He could go ahead and collapse the shield as originally planned. It would be so simple.

But the rebels had security holocameras in the shuttle, and his going to the panel in the first place would be hard enough to explain. If he outright killed Ren, he didn’t imagine the rebels’ already-strained goodwill toward him would continue.

Ren, for his part, spent the entirety of the jump glaring at Armitage and spitting threats.

“You think you’re safe?” he snarled, broad chest heaving with anger. “You betrayed me. Once I’m free, I’ll find you. I’ll find you, Hux. I’ll break you, slowly, until you beg me for death.”

Armitage knew how to keep his body still and his face mostly impassive. He forced himself to do so throughout Ren’s tirade, though he wanted nothing more than to hug his knees to his chest and close his eyes like a child. His weakness had gotten him into this, and he wouldn’t let it make things worse.

“I’ll make you regret this. I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”

The jump lasted far longer than Armitage would have liked. By the time Armitage felt the shuttle shudder back into realspace, Ren’s threats had grown graphic and specific, and Armitage’s palms were scratched raw and bloody.

There were no windows in the passenger area, so Armitage had no way of telling how long it would take to land. That wait felt somehow even longer than the jump had been.

When the shuttle finally settled to the ground and the ramp fell open, Armitage had to force himself to stand and move. He lurched unsteadily down the ramp, Ren screaming “Traitor!” at his back.

The hangar was a blur. Armitage was vaguely aware of pounding footsteps passing him, going up the shuttle’s ramp. He walked in what he thought was probably the direction of the hallway that led back to his room. The lights were too bright and the hangar was too loud; he couldn’t see properly, couldn’t make out individual sounds. He came up against a wall and stood there, confused, before turning to walk alongside it. His hands stung. Ren was behind him. He had to keep going.

Someone was coming. There were more loud footsteps, this time coming right for him. Ren was coming. He tried to move faster, scrabbling against the wall for purchase. He still wasn’t sure what he was seeing, where he was going, but he had to get away. The footsteps came closer and closer, and Armitage stumbled—

“Easy there, Red,” came Dameron’s voice, soft in his ear. Dameron’s hand was gripping his arm. Dameron’s other arm came up to wrap around his waist. Armitage tried to push away, keep going. “Hold up, it’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ll get you back to your room, okay?”

Armitage realized he was shaking a little. Everything was a wash of color and noise. He didn’t know where to go. The warm places on his body where Dameron was touching him were all he could sense clearly.

He could do nothing but let Dameron guide him.

~

Once Armitage was back in his room with the door secured, the world began to coalesce into something comprehensible again. He recognized his desk, his chair, his bed, the waste reclamation unit, the row of jumpsuits on the hanger near the door.

Armitage put his hands behind his back as he turned to Dameron. “Thank you,” he said, and his voice didn’t waver at all.

“No problem,” Dameron said. “I gotta go, but...are you okay?”

“Of course,” Armitage said.

“Sorry,” Dameron said. But he didn’t move; he stood there, looking conflicted, reaching out toward Armitage and then dropping his hand back to his side. Armitage watched him silently. Was he going to go? Was he going to stay? No one could protect Armitage from Ren, least of all Dameron.

Armitage’s skin was hot and prickly, the back of his neck burning and his raw palms stinging with sweat. And, damn him, Dameron was still standing there. “Go,” Armitage said.

“But—”

“You’re needed.”

Dameron grimaced, but this time he moved. “Sorry,” he said again.

As soon as the hatch closed behind Dameron, Armitage engaged the main lock, the secondary lock, and the physical deadbolts. He walked to the desk and sank into the chair and put his hands on his thighs, turning them over automatically when pain suddenly lanced through his palms. And then he sat there, motionless, staring at the wall.

Some unknowable time later, a clanking noise just outside his door startled him to his feet. “Who’s there?” he shouted without thinking. No one answered. Armitage moved slowly to the door, listened carefully, but he heard nothing else. His heart was beating so hard it almost hurt.

After a long moment of silence, Armitage drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was alive. He was mostly intact. And, he realized, unclenching his fists with a small shock of pain, he should probably do something about his hands.

The waste reclamation unit had a sanitizer built into it; Armitage shoved his hands in, wincing, and let it disinfect his wounds. Then he changed out of his ruined jumpsuit, tearing it as best he could into long strips. As he carefully wrapped up his palms in the makeshift bandages, he realized he’d instinctively hidden his injuries from Dameron. How utterly pointless—Dameron had seen everything else, that entire pathetic display. Minor scrapes were nothing next to cowardice.

It didn’t matter what Dameron thought of him, though, did it? In fact, it was for the best that their...whatever it had been was over. Armitage didn’t belong here anyway.

He finished bandaging his hands and settled himself at the center of his bed, watching the door.

~

Rey came by some time later to let Armitage know that Ren was secure in his specially designed, ray-shielded cell, and that the tracker in his belt had been successfully disabled. Armitage didn’t open the door for her. Why should he? It wasn’t necessary. He got the “good news” in a staticky crackle through the entry comm.

Rey also informed Armitage that his status on base had been upgraded from “prisoner” to “guest.” Armitage could now come and go from his room as he pleased, eat without fear in the mess, and work out in the gym whenever he wished. Just like that.

No one knew he’d planned to kill Ren and return to the First Order. Like the fools they were, they trusted him, after he’d helped them a single time.

In light of his new status, Rey had brought Armitage a datapad with read-only holonet access. “I’ll just leave it here,” she said through the comm. Armitage waited until she left, then quickly retrieved it from the hallway.

Once he was satisfied the door was secure again, Armitage settled down on his bed with the datapad. He set it to retrieve as many feeds as he could find, news and gossip, anything that would tell him what was happening with the galaxy and especially with the First Order.

A quick scan of multiple sources indicated that news of Ren’s capture had not hit the mainstream. But then, Organa wasn’t looking for ransom. There was no particular benefit in advertising that she had Kylo Ren in custody at this point. She could have proclaimed him dead, though, and it was interesting that she hadn’t done that.

Meanwhile, the Order was surely regrouping, working on a new strategy. He could find no information that even hinted at what they were doing beyond the colonization moves they had already been making. This was heartening; it meant they hadn’t made any sort of announcement. It would be foolhardy for the Order to let the galaxy know they’d lost Ren so soon after losing Snoke. They needed to be smart about this, take advantage of Organa’s silence.

Unfortunately, it was also possible that without a strong leader at its head, the Order was descending into blind infighting. The longer Armitage was away, the more likely that scenario was.

Armitage had to know what was going on so that when his next opportunity arose, he could take it. And so he sat cross-legged at the center of his bed, staring at his new datapad all night.

~

After untold hours of focus in his utterly silent room, the visitor alert was startling. For a moment Armitage wasn’t even sure what had happened. Then it chimed again, and Armitage blinked, shook his head, scooted to the edge of the bed and stood up. His legs were sore and cramped; he shook them out as he moved toward the door.

Tapping the comm, he asked, “Yes?”

“Armitage? It’s Poe.”

Armitage frowned. Something seemed strange about that greeting. After a too-long moment, he realized: Dameron had never called him by name before. He’d only ever used nicknames like “buddy” and “Red”.

“Everything all right?” Dameron asked when Armitage didn’t respond.

Armitage shook his head again. “Fine.” But why was Dameron here? Armitage sucked in a breath, feeling his heart rate pick up. “Is there news?”

“News?” Dameron asked. “Oh. No. I just—I was wondering if you wanted to go get breakfast.”

Relief washed through Armitage like a torrential Arkanis rain, followed swiftly by a flood of unease. “I’m not hungry,” he started to say, but the sudden and violent growling of his stomach proved that statement false. “Er. That is…” Surely there was a reason not to go to breakfast. Armitage thought quickly, but his mind was blank. “I don’t feel like it,” he said.

Dameron was quiet, long enough that Armitage wondered if he’d gone. Then he spoke again. “Rey says you wouldn’t open your door yesterday.”

Armitage felt his eyes narrowing. “It’s my right not to.”

“Of course,” Dameron said quickly. “Nobody’s gonna force you to open your door, or come out. I just—” Armitage heard Dameron draw a long breath. “I want to see you.”

Armitage was suddenly hot all over. His hands clenched into fists, nails clawing into the fabric covering his damaged palms, and he let out a low hiss at the pain. “Go away,” he gritted out.

“I. Uh. Okay,” Dameron said. “You know where to find me, okay, Armitage?”

Armitage didn’t answer. He waited, listening at the door, for several long minutes, until he was absolutely certain Dameron had left. Then, trembling, he stalked back across the room and climbed onto the bed. He snatched up the datapad and yanked the covers around himself.

He had to watch the feeds.

~

In the days following Kylo Ren’s capture, Armitage never left his assigned quarters. No one else commented on it to him, but certain changes were made. When someone wanted to talk to him, they’d comm him or connect to his datapad by holo. This was rare; Dameron called once each day but didn’t seem to have much to talk about, Organa holoed briefly to thank him for his assistance in capturing Ren, and 3PO made a valiant attempt at getting Armitage to talk about his childhood. Armitage didn’t say much to anyone in response.

R2-D2 began bringing Armitage meal trays again, but the droid now left them outside the door for Armitage to retrieve. Armitage soon perfected a system for keeping the door open as short a time as possible. He would double-tap the control, grab the tray while the door was still swishing up into the ceiling, and quickly yank it inside before the door could slam back down to the floor.

It was pathetic, and he knew it was pathetic. But he was safer in here than he would be out in the open when Ren escaped. At least until Ren found him.

And Ren would find him. Or the First Order would come, and he’d be snuffed out like a rebel. It was just a question of which would happen first.

He was trapped.

And even if he wasn’t, even if the rebels let him leave and he went back to the Order, would his fellow members of High Command believe him? Would they see that he had done everything for the good of the Order, or would they execute him for his part in getting Ren captured?

He could flee elsewhere. Find some remote planet and eke out a life as a maintenance worker. It would be a long way to fall from the heights he’d achieved in the Order.

Maybe he deserved to fall, for not having the strength of will to kill Ren.

This was what he thought about most, as he lay curled up in bed watching news headlines scroll across his datapad. He’d had so many chances—not just back in the wreckage of Snoke’s throne room when he found Ren unconscious. He’d spent the weeks after Crait at Ren’s side, accompanying the new Supreme Leader everywhere at his command. And he’d spent far longer than that warming Ren’s bed—though until Crait, that _hadn’t_ been at Ren’s command.

He’d been so foolish.

Until Snoke’s death, he’d allowed himself to believe Ren held him in high esteem. That Ren was coming to care for him. But Armitage had never been a partner to Ren. He wasn’t even a person. He was a toy, a pet...and Ren expected him to behave.

Ren should have died in that shuttle. Armitage should have killed him, damn the consequences. The rebels might have put Armitage to death if he’d interfered in their goal of capturing Ren, but that almost seemed preferable to the current situation, knowing that Ren was alive, knowing that Ren was _here_ , knowing that it was only a matter of time.

He should have killed Ren. He should have been smarter. He shouldn’t have been deluded about Ren’s feelings in the first place.

He shouldn’t have been so weak. He should have been able to take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes/warnings: This is a tense, uncomfortable chapter in which Armitage encounters Ren, his abuser. Ren uses the Force to partially undress Armitage, and he makes violent verbal threats. He does not injure Armitage physically; however, Armitage self-harms by scratching his palms until they bleed. Armitage also goes into shock for a time, after which he victim-blames himself.


	8. Epilogue

Armitage wasn’t sleeping so much as collapsing from exhaustion in front of his datapad and then jerking back awake a few hours later, so if it wasn’t for the datapad and the regular drops of food trays outside his door, he might have easily lost track of how many days were passing. It wasn’t smart. He’d been the one to perfect Brendol Hux’s stormtrooper program; he knew that the human body needed proper rest to function effectively. But he couldn’t afford to be asleep when Ren came for him.

The galaxy was still turning, blissfully unaware of the First Order’s loss of its Supreme Leader. It wouldn’t be long before busybodies began to speculate as to why the Order wasn’t making any big moves, however, and Armitage was keeping a keen eye out for the first indication that the tide of galactic opinion might be turning.

Ren might be a terrible leader, impatient, hotheaded, driven too easily by his emotions...but he made a powerful symbol. Grandson of Darth Vader, literal heir to the Empire. He would, Armitage thought bitterly, be perfect as an enforcer, following in his grandfather’s footsteps. Unfortunately, in true Ren fashion, he had claimed a title he was unprepared for instead.

And now he was here, and he knew Armitage had betrayed him. Knew that Armitage had helped the rebels trap him. Probably knew that Armitage hadn’t been kidnapped in the first place, but had left the Order of his own volition. He would, inevitably, escape, and when he did, he would find Armitage no matter where he was. Ren would find him. Ren would kill him.

Unless...

Armitage thought back to what had happened on the shuttle. He had appeared to be a prisoner thanks to the binder cuffs on the bench. Ren had activated the trap himself; Armitage hadn’t done anything. Armitage had said nothing to Ren about the trap, nothing that would indicate he had been in on the plan. And Armitage hadn’t made it to the control panel, so Ren couldn’t have known what he was trying to do.

If he spun it right, Ren might believe he was still loyal. If he went to Ren—if he freed Ren—Ren might not kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued in Part II...


End file.
